


A Tribe of Three

by Roanoke_Wilde



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action, Adopted Children, Adorable Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, Aliens, Canon-Typical Violence, Cara Dune is a good bro, Chiss, Coming of Age, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Din Djarin & Cara Dune Friendship, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Family, Father Figure, Fatherhood, Found Family, Foundling, Friendship, Gen, General, Good Parent Din Djarin, Grogu - Freeform, Grogu | Baby Yoda Needs a Hug, Hardcore Dadalorian here, Healing, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Lotsa character growth for everyone, Major AU, ManDadlorian, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), No Beta We Die Like Mandalorians, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Original Character - Freeform, Origins, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Grogu | Baby Yoda, Science Fiction, Star Wars - Freeform, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), The Force Is Weird (Star Wars), The helmet might not be safe guys just saying, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This Is The Way, Trauma, Travel, Whump, Wookieepedia will save my life, what are words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roanoke_Wilde/pseuds/Roanoke_Wilde
Summary: When Lyrian, a Chiss youngling running from more than she knows, is led to a Mandalorian warrior and his powerful, unexpectedly-adorable companion, she is thrown into a chaos she never knew existed. Pursued by unrelenting enemies and dogged by the past, the trio must learn some hard truths if they are to survive OR Mando accidentally becomes a dad. Again.NOT A ROMANCE FICIN-PROGRESS
Comments: 137
Kudos: 77





	1. The Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child participates in criminal acts, there is some mild violence because, hey, this has to do with the Mandalorian, and there is also much mystery. Wow.

The armored warrior she had seen in her mind was here.

She could sense it—and he wasn’t alone.

Lyrian crouched behind a smelly container that was over five times her size, listening with her eyes closed as the Cerean merchant whose ship she was currently on slapped at the button to lower the main ramp. She counted, _one, two, three, four, five_ , and then she stood up, tucking her satchel close to her side. After two more seconds, the entryway began to close again, and Lyrian darted out of her hiding place, down the ramp, and into—

Snow.

Ice.

Lots of it.

She sucked in a breath. Though it took mere seconds for her body to begin acclimating to the sudden cold, it felt like a lifetime before she began to breathe again and the tightness in her chest faded.

The Cerean had already disappeared into the grey chaos of snow and shadow ahead of her, so she wasn’t concerned about finding him lurking about as she scanned the landscape. The air was elusive and incredibly dry despite the crystalline precipitation that flurried down from above, and already she could feel her skin assuming the tauter, almost brittle texture that told her of its low oxygen content. Couple that with the rocky outcrop that was the ship’s resting place and the jagged path that loped irregularly down in front of her, and Lyrian could safely infer that she was on a mountain somewhere.

She frowned and drew her tunic closer about her—not because she was cold but because she had never been on a mountain before.

This was new, and she didn’t like it.

“The way forward is the only way,” the small girl muttered to herself.

She began her descent down the path, noting the relative smoothness of the stone under her feet and the ease with which she could traverse the snowy terrain. The ability to conquer the ice and snow was in her blood, and she felt that now as she never had before.

Six minutes later—she counted—and she was entering a village.

It wasn’t anything impressive. Squat, geometric buildings carved of stone and laced with gleaming metal jutted out of tarry streets, splashed like oil stains across the white-capped mountain peaks that surrounded them. From her higher vantage point, Lyrian could see that the entire path she had walked and the village itself were situated along a narrow, flat strip of mountainous plateau. She couldn’t tell how far up she was or what the ground-surface of this planet looked like, given her height and the spires of rock that ridged the area. But she could tell just by initial observation that this place couldn’t have been very old, and it couldn’t be oft-visited—likely for a good reason.

She squared her shoulders and started forward again, letting a wave of smoky air—tinted with the vague overtones of a mechanical shop—envelope her as she stepped into the village proper. She stuck purposefully to the middle of the wide street, walking between the cubic buildings and peeking with no small amount of interest into the doors that were open as she passed.

And, indeed, most of them _were_ open, spilling enticing pools of flickering light and rumbling voices onto the main pathway. She heard snatches of Minnisial and Sy-Bistri more than any other language, which meant this was hub for just the kind of people she had been expecting to find: merchants, mercenaries, and smugglers. The Cerean’s kind of people.

She pulled her hood over her head and swerved away from a strip of darkness creeping from between two shuttered buildings. She needed to tread lightly and stick to her plan. As such, the first thing she needed to do was find the warrior, which was likely going to be difficult considering she knew nothing more than his general appearance and the fact that he was traveling with a companion.

Fortunately for her, however, it proved to be remarkably easy.

Lyrian had almost reached the end of the drab plateau, where three larger buildings hunched menacingly against a sheer face of black rock, when she felt a familiar pressure behind her eyes—a narrowing of her focus. She turned slowly around, and there he was, wreathed in a mist of snow.

The armored one.

He was just coming out of a cantina she had passed not thirty seconds before, cloak whipping out behind him in the bitter wind, T-visor helmet as cold and impersonal as the predawn atmosphere of the village he stood in. He turned towards her, and for a moment she thought—irrationally—that he might know she was looking for him. But the thought passed just as quickly as it had come, and the warrior turned away, heading back the way she had just come.

Her heart thudded sharply against her ribs even as her mind snapped back to the plan. Somehow she knew he would be staying long enough for her to gather the supplies she needed, just as she had known intrinsically that he would be here the moment the Cerean’s ship had entered orbit. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t lose him in this unfamiliar territory.

Hurriedly, she strode to her left until she was mostly concealed in the shadows cast by a dark residential building. She watched as the warrior trudged laboriously through the snow, walking peculiarly to one side. She cocked her head, unsure if this had to do with his particular species, simple difficulty in navigation, or some kind of paranoia.

When he had gotten farther enough away from her and seemed destined to duck into a larger building not far from the hill from which she had just come, she slipped from building to building. She would stay close to him, but not so close that he would know she was dogging him.

Her next order of business was the acquisition of supplies she would need for her embarkment with the warrior: sustenance, extra clothing, and finances.

* * *

For the next hour, Lyrian stayed close to the warrior.

She remained roughly one building behind him and stole throughout cantinas, shops, and sleeping quarters—so small and dark in her cloak that she was a virtual ghost. She found that more than being a place to refuel, drink, and brawl before continuing on one’s way, this village and perhaps the entire planet was practically a rest stop for the galaxy. People came and went however they pleased, sleeping a few hours in cheap, grimy cots or pods until they felt they had stayed long enough.

She saw a good sampling of the Unknown Regions’ many species, and despite the village’s eerie, deserted appearance, the inside of nearly every building was full of traders and criminals who mostly talked amongst their own kind and mingled minimally with those of other standings. And, more importantly for her purposes, she found that the darkness and the muffled din of the planet’s institutions were more than accommodating to hide her as she flitted from patron to patron, pilfering what she could when she could.

Tiny satchels of credits or flan weren’t hard to come by in the cantinas, intoxicated as the customers generally were. Food was trickier to snag, but Lyrian quickly became adept at sneaking into smelly cantina kitchens and swiping whatever happened to be closest to her before a tender or servant grumbled back to retrieve an order. Clothing, too, proved to be easy to acquire. She simply tip-toed into any one of the numerous sleeping houses, weaved between beds and pods until she found the shoddy cabinets reserved for securing personal possessions, and then broke into them with an efficiency cultivated by experience.

She carried all of her stolen goods in a pack she had also pilfered from one of the sleeping houses. Her only hope was that the warrior would leave before her victims had a chance to fully realize what they were missing.

The warrior had spent the last fifteen minutes in the same cantina, and, mostly prepared for the journey ahead, Lyrian decided to risk entering the same establishment. If she hung near the corners, she would be able to observe him and form a better idea of how she wanted to officially approach him.

She ventured into the cantina purposefully, keeping her head down and scanning the room before she took a weathered seat tucked against the wall nearest the entrance.

This place was slightly different from the rest. It was more brightly lit and less occupied, and the bartender, of a species she didn’t recognize, tinkered with mechanical scraps and metal in between fulfilling orders or barking at rowdy customers. The warrior also sat against a wall, arms crossed, no food or drink before him. She wondered why he was here if he wasn’t going to eat or drink, but guessed it was better not to dwell on that.

He seemed like a mercenary or, more likely, a bounty hunter. And that meant he probably had more enemies than friends. But, then again, she had already reasoned through this in her head, and, in light of her vision of him before, she knew that the benefits of him being in her plan had to outweigh the risks. Even if by a margin.

A few minutes passed, Lyrian slowly warming up and beginning to feel the effects of her many waking hours, before a new patron entered the cantina. It was a female humanoid creature with ridges in her forehead and armor that looked suspiciously similar to that of Imperial soldiers. But that wasn’t what attracted Lyrian’s attention and made her sit up, adrenaline snaking through her veins.

There, on the soldier’s hip, was a sleek black blaster.

Not just any blaster, either—it was a Chiss-made blaster. A blaster made by Lyrian’s own people, and the youngling, though shorter on years than most of her kind, knew that the only way this non-Chiss creature could have acquired such a weapons was by murder or theft. To do either of those things to a member of the Chiss species was tantamount in their eyes to a "throwing down of the gauntlet." It was a private act of war, and Lyrian knew her place as one bound to protect the honor of her people. The warrior was forgotten as her mind began to formulate a course of action.

She let a few minutes pass, painfully conscious that the warrior might choose to leave at any moment, and then she stood. The woman’s back was turned to her, and the bartender was engaged in some activity at the back of the bar. Most of the tables scattered around the room were empty, but the few that were occupied seemed to be catering to the types of individuals who would hardly bat an eye at the theft of a blaster—from an Imperial or Imperial sympathizer, no less.

She soft-footed her way to the woman and had already decided on the exact angle she was going to extract the blaster from the holster, the way she would have to curve her fingers to minimize sensation on the woman’s part, and the rough speed she was going to have to move to make it out of the cantina in time.

Unfortunately, her calculations could not take into account the unpredictable movements of the woman herself—always a danger in theft. Lyrian had escaped from close calls several times already tonight, but this one was different.

As soon as the blaster left the holster, the woman shifted, and her peripheral vision snagged on Lyrian.

“Eh!”

Lyrian gasped and dodged the first clumsy grab of the woman’s hand. With speed fueled by adrenaline and practice, she sprinted out of the cantina and was already several steps into the snow before her victim reached the door. She swore as her feet sunk into the snow.

“Frilt! Terran! It’s the thief!” the woman shouted in choppy Sy-Bistri.

Lyrian cursed softly in Cheunh—her own language—and risked a glance over her shoulder. Another Imperially-garbed alien had emerged from an alleyway near the woman, and he could move faster than his companion. He also had a blaster, which was definitely aimed at her.

Lyrian adoped a zig-zagging running pattern and did a quick scan of her options. Heading to the shipyard or to the end of the plateau was obviously out of the question. Trying to lose herself in a building would be foolish and unlikely, given the small size and cramped quarters. Her only choice seemed to be duck between the buildings, into the narrow alleyways, and hope that her speed, persistence, and exceptional eyesight could guide her through enough twists and turns so that she could either make it back to the ship or disappear into some niche her pursuers wouldn’t think to look in.

She committed to a turn and made it into the first alleyway that seemed promising. The path between the buildings was slushy with half-melted snow and studded with metal and trash, but Lyrian was right in assuming that her eyesight would assist her in navigation.

She zoomed through the first alleyway and shot past the end of the building—only to find herself faced with a blank rock wall. Behind the buildings of this village was nothing more than a gap separating the structures from the rockface of the mountain that housed them. And, now, a reptilian alien she assumed was either Frilt or Terran.

She skidded to a stop and pointed the Chiss blaster at him—to which he responded by grinning and aiming his own blaster at her.

“No more space left, kid,” he hissed.

Lyrian threw back her hood so he could see her features, and she was pleased to see a dim registration of shock on his face.

“This belongs to my people,” she said loudly, her voice husky from disuse.

The presumed mercenary’s surprise faded into resolve, and he took an aggressive step forward. Her fingers tightened around the mechanism that would fire the blaster, but she hesitated. She had never killed before, and though these individuals were technically the ones who had instigated this skirmish by virtue of taking the Chiss blaster, to fire now would seem uncomfortably close to a senseless killing.

She was going to have to run.

Without giving it another thought, she haphazardly dropped the end of the blaster and let loose a shot, which she hoped would give her aggressor enough of a pause so she could make it back into the alleyway. As she had intended, the blast hit the snow a few feet in front of the reptile-alien. She spun away from him and was about to breathe a sigh of relief when she felt it—a searing pain across her shoulder.

She cried out and nearly lost her footing, but she managed to stay on her feet enough to stumble temporarily out of harm’s way, hidden behind the wall of a building making up one-half of the alleyway. She gritted her teeth and tried crashing into the back door of a mechanical shop, but found it locked.

Things were getting farther and farther out of hand.

She sprinted back to the mouth of the alleyway, but only got three-quarters of the way there before things came to a head. Behind her, she could hear the huffing of the reptile creature. Ahead of her stood the form of the woman she had originally snatched the weapon from.

She stopped, resisting the urge to reach her blaster hand up to touch her throbbing shoulder.

The woman smiled, wreathed heavily in shadows but light-skinned enough that Lyrian could make out her basic facial features.

“Well, now. A Chiss, aren’t you? No wonder you got around so fast.”

She jerked her head in some kind of gesture to her companion behind Lyrian, then focused her gaze back on the girl. She walked towards her, still wary as she saw the Chiss raise her blaster awkwardly and attempt to train it on her.

“We don’t want to kill you,” the woman said, raising her non-blaster hand in conciliation. “But we do have need of you. I know someone who could—employ you, if you’re willing. Just hand the blaster back..”

Lyrian clenched her fist, and the pain in her shoulder seemed to flare with her anger. She cleared away the haze encroaching upon her vision and glared at the soldier in front of her. Her chin lifted.

“The Chiss will not sell themselves out as _mercenaries_ ,” she said in Sy-Bistri, spitting the word for ‘mercenary’ out as a despicable thing.

There was a lull as her attacker considered this, and then she shrugged. In that moment, three things happened: one, Lyrian became acutely aware of the fact that the woman’s companion was behind her, poised to either kill or stun her. Two, Lyrian’s finger had tightened of its own accord on the trigger, just a millisecond before her attackers had launched their next offensive; she might have ended up killing the soldier despite her earlier reservations. Three, _he_ was going to be here.

The armored warrior was going to save her—she knew this with the same inexplicable certainty as before, when she had known he was going to be here.

And then time was fluid again.

The soldier-woman grunted in pain as she, like Lyrian before her, was clipped by blaster fire. Her companion crashed the butt of his weapon on Lyrian’s head, and the girl went down, stunned, though not entirely unconscious. And the warrior—he materialized behind the woman and swung the forked end of some rifle contraption into the back of her knees, crumpling her instantaneously.

Lyrian fell onto her stomach in the snow, cold seeping into her tunic, chilling her for the first time since she had stepped off the ship. She fought to keep her eyes open as the pain from her head-wound and her burning, aching shoulder radiated throughout her body. She had to stay conscious so the warrior didn’t leave. She had to stay conscious so she could make it to Csilla. So she could carry out her plan and find out why the warrior currently fighting on her behalf had appeared to her—twice now.

The reptilian creature who had hit Lyrian had stepped over her fallen form at some point, and now he took a knee and fired his weapon at the new arrival. The armored warrior jerked to the right mechanically, whipped his rifle up, and fired his own blast, so quickly that his attacker didn’t even have time to flinch before it hit him full in the chest and he fell backwards into the snow, twitching. The smell of sizzling flesh filled Lyrian's nose.

Meanwhile, the woman seized the opportunity and launched her own counter-attack. She had twisted herself into a crouch after falling, and now she lunged at the warrior’s back with the agility of a lethal hunter, knife in hand.

Her blow was true, and she sliced at one of the few vulnerable parts of the warrior’s armor—at the joint just behind his knee, where no plate covered him. Lyrian dimly heard the creature inside grunt, faltering at the pain, but then he had swung his rifle towards the woman’s face.

She was expecting it this time, though, and she had already jumped back, now out of range of the warrior’s weapon and glaring at him.

“And what stake do you have in this quarrel, _Mandalorian_?” she growled.

Lyrian’s breath caught. Of course! She should have recognized the warrior for what he was at first glance. She released a mock groan—though the pain had indeed intensified and her body ached with the cold and shock of her injuries—and shifted just enough that she could get a fuller view of the Mandalorian. She had learned very briefly of his kind during her education a few years ago, and now she berated herself for not remembering it.

The Mandalorians were a rare group to encounter—perhaps even more so than her own species. 

Though Lyrian didn't have a very long time to muse on this revelation because the woman’s other companion had just appeared behind the Mandalorian. Lyrian almost shouted out a warning, but the Mandalorian apparently sensed the newcomer because he whirled around and shot some kind of cable out of his wrist, which attached to the brutish man’s weapon and ripped it from his hands. The Mandalorian wrenched the cable, and it swung around, hurtling the heavy blaster in the direction of the woman's head.

She managed to dodge it, and then both she and the other man launched a joint attack, with the Mandalorian sandwiched between them. Lyrian watched in fascination as the Mandalorian, instead of dropping to the ground or attempting to ward off either of the attackers with one of his fancy gadgets, twisted swiftly around so that his back faced the wall instead of the man.

He was protecting his back, but Lyrian wasn’t sure why—he had to have armor there, protection under his thin cloak.

Nonetheless, that was what he did, and now the male attacker had an arm slung awkwardly around one side of the Mandalorian’s neck, pulling him to the right as the woman shot her leg out and landed a vicious blow to his chestplate. The Mandalorian reeled backwards, threatening to crash into the wall, but he managed to conjure enough force to pitch himself sideways instead—still protecting his back—and land heavily on the man holding his neck.

There was a crunch, a cry of pain, and a shower of fine snow as the two careened to the ground, and then the Mandalorian was on his feet again. In a single lithe movement, he had procured two blasters, one in each hand, and fired a round from each into both of his attackers. The whole thing happened in under five seconds.

Lyrian closed her eyes as the first flash gleamed upon his silvery armor, and then there was silence—no sounds of struggle, no more blaster fire, not even the sound of the Mandalorian's breathing. That is, there wasn’t any sound until she heard a muffled, high-pitched gurgle coming from the warrior's direction. It was not a sound she had been expecting him to make.

She cracked her eyes open.

The Mandalorian stood not six feet away, blasters restored to their rightful places, rifle strapped once more to his back. And now he was trying to look over his shoulder at his cloak, as if the noise were coming from there instead of him. She frowned, and he seemed to murmur something, but with one ear pressed uncomfortably into the freezing snow, she couldn’t be sure. Lyrian eased her face back into a neutral expression and refocused her thoughts on something more beneficial.

Here he was.

The warrior.

He had saved her life and she was wounded, but that didn’t mean he was going to help her—especially since she was a proven thief and he had been injured himself, however minorly. She needed a way to get him to stay, and she needed one fast because he didn’t seem particularly keen on sticking around.

She let out another groan and rustled in the snow, pretending to rouse herself from unconsciousness. She cracked her eyes open and saw that he had moved silently forward and was now standing over her, still, quiet, resolute.

Slowly, making sure to emphasize her trembling and to turn her injured shoulder towards him for inspection, she raised her head and blinked at him.

“P—please,” she whispered, pleased at how weak her voice was. “I’m hurt.”

The Mandalorian didn’t speak, didn’t move. The visor stared down at her impassively.

She made a show of letting a violent tremor run through her body, and then she coughed. She let her eyelids droop in apparent exhaustion, but ‘managed’ to pull herself into a sitting position in the snow. She huddled there, swayed a little bit.

But the Mandalorian turned away and began to leave.

Her mind raced, and she closed her eyes, felt the pressure behind her eyes again. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t and and—

His companion.

She reached out desperately into her memories and into the ever-present pressure that led to her visions, focused on the tightness inside her chest and belly. She tried to find his companion in her head.

And immediately, it came to her. As if it had been waiting for her to discover this entire time.

“I know about the Child’s gifts!”

_That_ made him stop. Abruptly, too. Lyrian waited just until the Mandalorian turned around to face her, and then she made a great show of rolling her eyes back into her head, trembling once more, and collapsing sideways into the snow.

Approximately three seconds later, she heard the crunch of the snow as the Mandalorian came even closer, close enough that she could have touched his boots if she had wished to. He paused with his shadow cold over her fallen form, and _now_ she could hear him breathing. She wondered for the first time what he looked like under the helmet—if he was humanoid or something different entirely—and then she heard him speak, softly, as if to himself.

“You were looking for us.”

There was a rustle, a gentle creak as the material under his armor creaked, and Lyrian tried to become deadweight as his hands slipped under her shoulders and knees. He lifted her up easily, if not somewhat awkwardly. She tried not to flinch away from how cold his armor was against her skin and how much it stung when it touched her injury, and then he was striding forward.

Lyrian sprinted through all the ways this could go wrong and right in her head, made a mental note that she could _not_ forget Pav, that they were going to have to get her out of the Cerean’s ship before it was too late—

And she tried not to, she really did, but by the time he stepped out of the alleyway and had turned towards the hill upon which her stowaway ship was parked, she was smiling against his armor.

If any creature in the village had chanced to investigate the sounds of blaster fire they had heard outside, they would have seen that curious sight: a sleek Mandalorian cradling a faintly grinning child in his arms. And if they had, by some miraculous chance, managed to learn any more about this mysterious guardian (or else, criminal), they would have known that he was really carrying _two_ children—the other one strapped into a carrier on his back, concealed by his long cloak, guarded zealously even in combat.

And if the bystander was a sane creature, it would shudder to think of what it might unleash should it ever dare to cross that trio.

The foundling of a Mandalorian was not to be trifled with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Welcome to one of my newest fanfiction endeavors. I've been kind of obsessed with the Mandalorian show for no apparent reason lately, so hopefully my obsession can spill over into some writing. So you can all, like, obsess with me and stuff. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please know that I have big plans for this fic and a lot of feels to come. Please let me know what you thought about everything, and I will be SO looking forward to reading your comments. Thanks for stopping by, and please know that whoever you are and whatever you're doing, you ARE loved. ;)
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> -Roanoke  
> (Proverbs 22:6)


	2. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lyrian is actually a smol one with a big brain because that's how she (has to) roll(s).

“You’re a good actor.”

Lyrian tensed involuntarily at the Mandalorian’s words, though she tried to recover immediately, forcing relaxation back into her limbs. The padded table she had been laid upon was cracked and smelled of oil and smoke. The patch he had pasted roughly across her burn leaked an aching coolness into her skin, contrasting with the warm and stuffy atmosphere of the ship she sensed gasping around her.

After a moment of trying and failing to completely calm her heart and restore her even breathing, she fluttered her eyes open and looked into the stern helmet of her rescuer.

“Actress,” she whispered.

The Mandalorian didn’t move, and Lyrian let the matter drop as abruptly as he had brought it forth. She did a quick scan of her surroundings, cataloguing, questioning. The ship looked old and worn, and it was dark. The only light was a perpetual dusky glow emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once, and it birthed sneering shadows that hunkered and twitched over numerous crates and unassuming alcoves. Other than a gentle hum of mechanic life and her own shallow breathing, everything else was silent.

“Thank you for saving me,” Lyrian tried. “And for bandaging my wound.”

Gingerly, she reached back and touched her head. Only now did she realize that its piercing throb had all but subsided, and the cool edge of a patch under her fingers, pinning down damp clumps of her hair, quickly confirmed that the wound had been adequately dealt with.

She sat up and swallowed. The Mandalorian had still not moved, though he had tilted his head somewhat to the side, shoulders tight, posture erect. She peered gratefully into the black bands of the visor, guessing at where his eyes might be.

“Why did you say that, back there?” he asked, voice flat, modified minimally by the helmet.

Lyrian returned his indiscernible stare. She waited for a few seconds and then crossed her arms over her chest.

“Why did you come to save me?”

“A zabrak doesn’t take theft lightly. Especially when backed by a Trandoshan and a houk hybrid.”

Lyrian filed away the species names, tagging the faces of her attackers as seemed appropriate in the context of the Mandalorian’s words. She tried and failed to bridge the gap between his question and his statement. Otherwise, she remained utterly still.

“Why did you bandage me up?”

This time, the Mandalorian did not respond with another question. He merely turned, and the cloak, torn where the zabrak’s knife had gashed the back of his knee, swirled decisively around his legs.

Lyrian slid off the narrow inset she had been laid on and plucked grimly at the tunic that clung to her own skin, still chilled and damp from her fall into the snow. She looked sharply back up at the Mandalorian, who had opened a cabinet to their left and was rummaging through it purposefully. She watched him until he turned back around and walked past her to sit on the bench-like niche she had just removed herself from. He looked back up at her.

“You’re free to return to your family,” he said, voice low, even, measured. Apparently, he had decided against pursuing her earlier comment regarding the Child she had seen.

Lyrian sucked in a gentle breath, knowing that so much might hinge on how well she could play this next part and ease it into her objectives. She had thought about it often in the early stages of her planning, and though she would have rather come to this tipping point on her own terms, she knew she had to act now or lose the Mandalorian for good. And she wasn’t sure what that would mean for her future. Once again, she couldn’t help but feel that the visions were unexplainable and likely there for reasons she neither knew nor could deny—reasons that were somehow related to her past and her legacy.

“I have none,” she said quietly. She dropped her eyes—though she wasn’t sure if that had more to do with the act itself or the bitter half-truth that undergirded the words.

She felt the Mandalorian’s gaze on her for a moment, heavy and appraising. She waited patiently, staring at the dusty metal of the floor in the meantime. Her mind jumped several steps ahead, to what the Mandalorian might say next and how she needed to respond. After a few seconds, she looked up. The Mandalorian had unslung the rifle from his back and propped it against the wall to his left. He was leaned slightly over his knees, gloved hands resting tersely over empty space.

“They had been following you since you started stealing,” he said, and Lyrian stiffened despite herself. “Just like you were following us. Why?”

Though Lyrian needed a moment to untangle her thoughts and reactions to these revelations, she chose to focus immediately on the one thing that did not come as a surprise: the fact that the Mandalorian was not alone, that he carried a Child, of all things. She smoothed away her ruffled expression, forced her fingers to uncurl, dropped her shoulders.

“Why do _you_ have a…gifted Child with you?”

The Mandalorian ignored her and instead reached for the patch he had removed from the cabinet earlier. He opened it and seemed on the verge of activating it before his movements faltered and then stopped completely. Lyrian watched as, once more, his posture tightened. His head turned nearly imperceptibly from one side to the other, and then he was looking at her again.

“How old are you?”

Once again—not something Lyrian had been expecting. Before she could think too hard about the ramifications of anything she might say, the truth was bubbling off her lips.

“Seven years.”

She was pleasantly intrigued by the obvious surprise the Mandalorian experienced, even if its more entertaining features were concealed by the helmet. It was obvious in the subtle adjustment of his position, the change in the air around him. She allowed herself the smallest of smiles, and then it was back to regaining any assets she might have in this interaction.

“I am Humil’yria’naspes,” she said, straightening up and gazing fiercely at the strip of black hiding the Mandalorian’s eyes. “Member of the venerable Chiss, leaders and trailblazers of galaxies.”

The Mandalorian was once again appraising her silently, the patch all but forgotten. Still, he did not speak, so Lyrian plowed on. Her heart was once again racing, but this time it was less about the maintenance of a façade of injury and more about the exhilaration that she had managed to pull from the air of her circumstances. It was about the fact that what she said was more true than anything else in her life. It was about the fact that upon this foundation—her name and her people—she would build everything she needed to survive and fulfill her ambitions. She could sense that the Mandalorian felt this. Somehow.

“I have answered your question, Mandalorian. Now answer mine.”

Three determined heartbeats passed in silence. And then the Mandalorian snorted, took his rifle in hand once more. He didn’t even look at her as he stood and strode past her, to a ladder that climbed upwards, out of the heavy underbelly of the ship.

Lyrian’s fist curled into balls, and she could feel heat sweep across the skin of her face. It crept into her chest and into her vision, sharp and iron on her tongue, feeding the exhilaration from seconds before.

“I was telling the truth earlier,” she said to the Mandalorian’s retreating back. Metal clanged on metal as he dropped a foot onto the first rung of the ladder. He started up, once again so infuriatingly silent, as if nothing she said mattered or was worth even a second more of his time.

“I know that the Child can do unexplainable things. That he’s powerful. Extremely. That you don’t know what to do with him.”

The last part was a bluff, a stab in the dark that may or may not have struck the flesh of a wild beast. But Lyrian had confidence that her gamble would pay off, that what she said was true, that the Mandalorian had, indeed, gotten into a situation far above his paygrade and was having a hard time reconciling himself to the fact. She scurried up the ladder as soon as her predecessor had disappeared through the hatch—and emerged into a cozy cockpit full of flashing lights and tiny switches and enticing buttons.

She was also met with the now-familiar stare of an unreadable helmet, too close for her liking. The Mandalorian’s voice was sharper than it had been before and laced with emotion for the first time since she had met him. Was it mere urgency in his voice? Frustration? Worry?

“What do you know?”

She pulled back just enough that there was a good arm’s distance between the two of them, her back nearly touching the wall behind her, and then she laced her hands behind her. Her chin was up as she spoke.

“I must see the him first.”

There were another few moments of hesitation before the Mandalorian sighed deeply and stepped deftly the side He sat on the very edge of the pilot’s chair and twisted around, working at something wrapped around his torso.

Lyrian wiped at a trickle of sweat creeping down the back of her neck and strained to see what he was doing, to hear anything that might indicate the presence of a Child. Her vision had not been clear—as always.

She knew the Child was a young male of some kind. She knew that he was powerful and had the ability to manipulate the world and matter around him in some way and to some degree. She knew he was lost, yet he was learning. Beyond this, she had only the very vaguest notions of what he might _be_ like. And none of those notions were necessarily informed by her own special abilities; they could have just as likely been the product of her own imagination and experiences as anything outside of her.

After a few seconds, she heard what sounded like a frustrated gurgle, similar to the odd sound she had heard not long before, in the snow. There was a soft click as something metal released its hold, and then a rasp as a strap retreated from its buckle, sliding against the Mandalorian’s armor. The Mandalorian pulled what looked suspiciously like a covered harness off his back and whirled the chair around so that he faced Lyrian.

He pulled up a flap, hands surprisingly gentle, and then let the tension drain from his movements. Lyrian moved a half-step closer and let her eyes widen in wonder. Because there was the Child.

He was green and wrinkled, robed in solemn brown and looking out at her from the Mandalorian’s grip with slightly furrowed brows and wide, dark eyes. Long, soft ears extended from his head, laid slightly back now in what she assumed was annoyance. He cooed agitatedly before lifting a tiny tri-fingered hand in greeting, and then he was leaning back to look up at the Mandalorian’s chin.

“Uooo?” he cooed mournfully. The Mandalorian softly pushed his reaching arm down and looked at Lyrian. The young Chiss was certain that if she could have seen his expression, it would be one of resignation. She stepped closer, eyes still trained on the young one, searching every winding hallway of her memory for something like him—some tidbit of information that might give her a little bit more to go on in regards to his species. Her body sank into the ratty chair behind the Mandalorian’s of its own accord.

She looked up at him.

“He’s so…small.”

Pause. Thick silence, and then—

“Yeah.”

Lyrian rerouted her thoughts, trying to block out her curiosity and the desire to try and find out more about the Child through her visions. She failed, however, the moment the little green creature grabbed the Mandalorian’s hand boldly and tugged at it, trying to bring it towards his open mouth. It was such an innocent, childlike thing to do—the baby had no idea, it seemed, of the kinds of things Lyrian was sure the warrior was capable of.

To her immense surprise, the armored man looked down and, far from resisting the infant’s attempts, instead lifted his hand and extended his smallest finger for his pleasure. The Child chirped happily and set to sucking at it, occasionally trying out a chew or two.

Lyrian frowned, and a question as to the pair’s relationship was rising to her tongue when the Mandalorian cleared his throat and spoke.

“How do you know about him? You’ve never seen him before, based on your reaction. Were you sent here by someone?”

It was a lot of heavy questions at once, spoken firmly and threateningly, and now she struggled to regain her composure and restore her previous train of thought. She tore her eyes away from the fascinating infant and collapsed her unfocused attention on the Mandalorian once more.

“I come to you of my own accord—”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I…I can’t tell you more until—”

“Until what?” the Mandalorian growled, and now Lyrian paused, eyebrows furrowing. The anger that had receded earlier came rushing in again, fueled by her frustration and confusion over the entire setup. Nothing had truly gone according to plan. There were more unknown variables in play than she had anticipated, which meant what she really needed was time to sit back, pause time, think things over. But she had yet to spring her biggest request or make her biggest play. She had to do it now. Before the Mandalorian became even more impatient with her.

Her momentum was fading.

“I want your help.”

This was apparently not what the man before her had been expecting—it was refreshing, though, to see that she wasn’t the only one being repeatedly surprised at the way things were shaping up. He pulled his finger out of the Child’s mouth, earning himself a squeak of displeasure, and leaned back in his seat. It creaked in futile protest.

“You’re a kid.”

“Physically, yes. But you know that I am more than my age would suggest.”

The Mandalorian appeared to consider this, and then he shook his head.

“Maybe.”

Lyrian took this as an invitation to elaborate. She decided to start with the incentive.

“I have the means to compensate you,” she said quietly, reaching around to grab at her satchel. Upon finding the bag absent, however, her heart jumped to her throat, head racing with ways she could have lost it. She swallowed and tried to recover. She hated how much of her time was consumed with recovering herself lately.

The Mandalorian must have noticed because he said, with a wryness that was not lost on her, “It’s down below.”

Lyrian cursed herself for not remembering to check for the bag, and then she folded her hands in her lap. She had to try hard to keep her eyes off the Child, knowing he would be too much of a distraction and not sure she would be able to handle the added pressure of his unnervingly cute gaze.

“Yes. Well, I can pay you. The mission should be simple for one of your talents, I assume, if what is heard of Mandalorians can be trusted.”

Lyrian guessed that some light flattery might not be too far out of line, but she was unable to tell how much of an effect it had on the warrior because of the cursed helmet. She was beginning to wish he would take it off already, but now was not the time to ask him to do so. Not to mention, there was something niggling at the back of her head, something she had learned and forgotten about a Mandalorian’s armor—

“What needs to be done?”

Lyrian shifted in her seat.

“I, uh, need you to escort me somewhere in the Unknown Regions. And help me…recover something.”

There was a lull as the Mandalorian became occupied with removing the antsy Child from his chest, where the little one had clambered and was attempting to reach the warrior’s shoulder with his tiny hands and stubby feet. He placed the kid firmly down on his lap again and reached behind him, where he unscrewed a silver ball and handed it to him.

Lyrian couldn’t help but feel herself warm a little to the otherwise cool and enigmatic warrior at the action. It seemed familiar to the both of them, and she found her thoughts turning unwittingly to the history of this odd pair. Where had they come from, and what were _their_ goals? She shook her head as the Mandalorian sighed, something that also seemed to be a common occurrence, and looked at her.

“Kid, I’m going to—”

“Lyrian,” the girl chimed, fighting to keep her temper more or less at bay in the face of the mercenary’s obvious disrespect for her and, by extension, all of the Chiss Ascendancy. “You can call me Lyrian, since you won’t be able to correctly pronounce my name anyway.”

The Mandalorian stared. The Child cooed and dropped his metal ball with a clank his caretaker’s lap. Wordlessly, the warrior snatched it up before it rolled to the ground and then handed it back to the kid. He leaned closer to Lyrian, who struggled to remain still and composed.

“I’m going to need more information. The Regions are big, and ‘something’ isn’t good enough.”

Lyrian frowned and glanced down at her hands, which she found to be far too tightly wrapped around each other. She hoped the Mandalorian hadn’t noticed, looked at him again. Here it was. The moment she could lose him.

“I swear on the honor of my people that I will give you all the information I know about the Child,” Lyrian begain, measuring each weighted word carefully, dropping them like cold, hard credits in the space between them. “If you take me to Csilla and serve as my…guard. For a worst-case scenario maximum of one week.”

There. It was out.

Lyrian leaned back and pulled a deep, life-giving breath through her nose. She stared resolutely at the Mandalorian, her heartbeat a drumbeat of hope, trills of excitement and adrenaline racing across her skin. The waiting was the worst.

“And if I say no?”

Lyrian didn’t falter.

“I _will_ find someone else.”

There was a moment when she wondered if she should go farther, if she should try casting out a threat to reveal the Child as traveling with the Mandalorian, rare and powerful. She had a feeling he didn’t exactly want the world to know who or what his companion was. A flash of memories of the Mandalorian fighting in the snow, a glance at the rifle on his back, and the briefest of looks at the big-eared child in his laps, and her mind was made up: as a last resort _only_ , she would try the threat out. And hope that killing a child in cold blood was both reprehensible and unwarranted according to whatever moral code the Mandalorians might live by.

“You are young. How would you—or your species—know of the Child?”

Lyrian had expected this.

“Have you heard of the Chiss, Mandalorian?” she asked softly, a little miffed that her voice hadn’t completely lost the high trappings of youth. She didn’t bother waiting for a response. “Whether you have or have not, know this: we are more than conquerors. We are innovators, scientists, explorers. Our knowledge runs deep and touches many crevices of the galaxy—including the one from which this Child originates. But we guard it jealously, and would rather our life be lost than our people betrayed.”

She made sure to add that last part just in case the Mandalorian had any ideas of trying to extract answers from her without upholding his end of the deal—she still knew virtually nothing about the warrior, after all. In reality, she wasn’t sure the Chiss knew anything about the Child, and she had yet to remember anything of use from her education a few years ago. But if her plan succeeded, she would give the Mandalorian everything she or her people knew, as would be his due. In that she was not lying.

The Mandalorian sighed again and pulled he Child away from the edge of his lap, where he was teetering dangerously. The Child grunted.

For what seemed the millionth time that day, silence hung heavy between the two—the pale blue Chiss youngling and the shining Mandalorian warrior.

Finally, he spoke.

“You won’t give up until you get what you want, will you?” he asked, resignation leaking from his voice, even through the modulator. Lyrian couldn’t help but notice how his head tilted down to look at the Child rather than her, however, and that familiar pang of curiosity stabbed through her. A rare smile strained the corners of her mouth.

“No. You’re my first choice for this position.”

The Mandalorian gazed at her, Lyrian returning the stare steadily even though she really just wanted to watch the little one play on the warrior’s lap, cooing and grunting and gurgling as he went. That seemed a much more peaceful existence than the one she found herself experiencing.

Abruptly, the Mandalorian half-curled a hand around the Child and whirled his chair around to face the console. He reached forward to fiddle with something.

“Fine. We leave in ten minutes.”

Lyrian sat there for a moment, stunned. It had been easy. Far, far easier than she expected, and they hadn’t decided on the finance arrangement, she hadn’t told him where to go, she hadn’t had to threaten to reveal information about the Child to anyone—

But what it was, it was. The way forward was the only way. Breathing a sigh of relief, quietly, so he wouldn’t know just how uptight she had been, she sunk back into her chair and allowed her mind to wander again to the future. To her goals. To the mission. To her visions. Though there was something important, something that made her uneasy, something she felt she was forgetting—

She ran through the checklist of things she needed in her head, and she had just finished, was about to say something to the effect that they could leave whenever he was ready, and then she remembered. She remembered what she had promised not to forget, and with a Cheunh curse that probably shouldn’t have been something she knew at her age, she leapt to her feet, eyes wide, all of her previous maturity falling away,

The Mandalorian turned towards her halfway, and she could imagine that he might have one eyebrow up, a look of skepticism across his features. Already, she was imagining him as some kind of green humanoid, like the Child, but with smaller ears and maybe lighter eyes—

“I forgot Pav!” she breathed. She was trying to remember exactly where she had left her, how long the sedative was supposed to last. Surely the Cerean hadn’t returned to the ship yet.

“Pav?”

Lyrian looked desperately at the Mandalorian.

“I’ll pay you extra if you help me get her off the ship I came here on.”

The Mandalorian turned to face her completely, and the Child in his lap wiggled his ears, all attention focused on Lyrian, as if he knew she was freaking out.

“What is it?”

Lyrian bit the inside of her cheek.

“She’s a Thulian myrzat.”

“A _what_?”

Lyrian crossed her arms, one hand reaching up to tug on her hair in frustration.

“Look, I can go alone. I just…I really want her to come with us. Please wait for me to go get her.”

Lyrian knew her earlier act was probably going out the window in light of this little panic session, but she found she couldn’t care that much. Maybe she really could find someone else to help her if the Mandalorian decided to back out, though she still didn’t know what the visions had to do with everything. She just knew that Pav, the young myrzat she had found, wounded, hobbling along outside her stowaway ship on Thule, wouldn’t survive on her own. And she guessed that the Cerean who owned the ship wasn’t going to show her any mercy if he found her, either.

There were three heartbeats before the Mandalorian answered, his voice dark.

“Come on.”

He stood, Child cradled in the crook of his arm, and gestured for her to move, and at once hope flared. Maybe he would come with her and they could get Pav back quickly and no harm would be done—either to her or to Lyrian’s deal with the Mandalorian.

With a kind of expert ease, he descended the ladder one-handed, the Child cooing happily at the change of pace. Lyrian followed him to a cabinet, out of which he quickly procured a small, minimalistic blaster.

He stared at it for a moment and then handed it to Lyrian. The Child, even more adorable up close, gurgled at her curiously and stuck nearly an entire hand in his mouth, dark eyes tracking her every movement. Lyrian hesitantly accepted the blaster and looked up into the Mandalorian’s visor—he was a lot taller when he was standing up and this close to her.

“Only use it if you have to. Do you know how?”

Lyrian scanned the blaster, noting its structure, designed for easy concealment and quick shots but not endurance. She nodded.

“Yes, simple enough. Are you not…coming? Wouldn’t it be easier if you—”

“I have preparations to make on the ship.”

Lyrian looked at him skeptically, and then her eyes fell once more on the Child in his arms. A sudden thought struck her, given how the young one had been carried by the warrior both during the fight and during the many hours spent going from building to building on the planet’s surface. He might actually be hungry. Hunger and thirst seemed to be pretty universal for sentient species, and she guessed that, as was normal with infants, those requirements were intensified by his high metabolism.

“Alright. I’ll, uh, be back,” she said, and again, she cursed inappropriately in her head at the failure of her words. The Mandalorian watched as she mounted the ladder again, and then she paused, turned around.

“Where is the exit again? I was u—unconscious earlier.”

Lyrian liked to imagine that the man was smiling under the helmet, but she knew it was probably wishful thinking. They weren’t there yet anyway and probably never would be. He gestured beside him with his free hand, and then she was following him, watching the cloak moving liquidly across his back, remembering that he had never actually managed to sit down and attend to his own wound—

Seconds later—seconds Lyrian spent planning exactly what she would do once she got outside the ship (surely the Mandalorian’s ship wasn’t that far from the Cerean’s, given that they were both in the same direction, at least, relative to the village)—and the ramp was down.

Lyrian stepped deliberately into the snow, expecting the pleasant cold this time. She took a few steps forward, clutching the blaster against her hip, feeling the weight of her stolen bag swing against her side, and then she paused. She wasn’t sure why, but she turned around, and there was the Mandalorian, hesitating in a way she was sure couldn’t be characteristic of him.

He was staring into the grey gloom—where, she couldn’t tell—but when he caught her gaze, he nodded once. The Child waved once more, no doubt utterly confused by absolutely everything happening around him, and Lyrian waved back on a total impulse.

She and the Mandalorian turned away from each other at the exact same time, though neither was aware of that fact, and then she was heading out into the snow alone. On a rescue mission for a creature she had nursed back to health and, rightly or wrongly, felt responsible for. And also rightly or wrongly, was feeling extremely guilty for forgetting for so long.

Regardless, she wasn’t going to have to leave the myrzat behind, and that was what counted at the moment.

Nearly all parts of her plan had been realized, even if they hadn’t been realized in the manner she had imagined. The Mandalorian was going to be her escort, guide, and guardian. She was going to get to Csilla. She was going to realize the future that had for so long extended alluringly in front of her. She was rising above _their_ control and power, becoming better than _them_. And yet—

There was a lone dissenter from the logical map laid out in her head, a tightness in her chest that grew with every step away from the ship. It told her, against all reason she could see, that something was wrong.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome to the SECOND chapter of my latest fanfic baby. It is, yes, a very long chapter and was written in the throes of vacation-induced sleep-deprivation and far too much trail mix, BUT it was fun. I hope you all enjoyed and are ready to find out what happens next. Please please please leave some feedback and tell me what I can improve on, what you liked or didn't like, and what you think will happen next. I appreciate it more than you know.
> 
> Anyway, until next time. This is the way.  
> ~Roanoke  
> (Proverbs 3:5-6)


	3. Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one Din Djarin battles his conscience and feeds a baby.

Din Djarin watched the blue youngling drift across the surface of the snow, small and straight against the powdery wind.

When she turned back to him and waved at the restless Child curled in the crook of his arm, his resolve wavered. Doubt flashed through his head. He turned away before her piercing gaze swept up to his face again, and the Child began to squirm and coo and grunt.

He probably wanted to get down. Din _knew_ he had to be hungry. He was probably thirsty, as well.

Din sighed and retreated into the ship, which was perched a little way above the main landing area, on a rocky outcrop that probably shouldn’t be able to hold his ship’s weight but was going to have to deal with it anyway because he didn’t have the patience for two rogue kids _and_ a crumbling mountainside.

He shut the ramp door with the press of a button and made his way to the center of the ship, where he had taken to storing all the things he might need to use for the kid. Random foods of all kinds and sources; water; nutritional powders to mix with the water for a quick and easily digestible meal; and first aid supplies made up the bulk of his repertoire. However, he had picked up a few soft lengths of cloth on a whim at a market somewhere in the Outer Rim before Moff Gideon’s ambush, and they occupied a narrow shelf tucked into one alcove as well.

He hadn’t yet mustered the nerve to try and give the kid a bath or anything, so the linens were a just-in-case for now.

“Alright, what’ll it be?” he asked, setting the kid on the table where he had bandaged Lyrian’s minor injuries.

The kid waggled his ears.

“Aaaiie!”

“Mhm. I was thinking of some goiil jerky, too. You seem like you might need some…protein or something anyway.”

Din received a squeaky giggle in response.

For the next few minutes, Din tried to prepare the kid something to eat and drink without thinking of Lyrian. But the harder he tried, the more she pushed to the forefront of his mind.

After slamming things around probably a little too much, Din turned to the Child—who wasn’t there. Again, he sighed.

The little green womp rat couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble—not to save his life and not save anyone else’s. Yeah, it wasn’t like he completely understood what all was at stake just by him being here, but it sure seemed like he should have learned his lesson by now: don’t move while Din’s back was turned.

The Mandalorian paused and scanned the area, holding a wide-rimmed cup of specially enhanced water and a couple of strips of softened jerky in his hand. He spotted a splash of green on the second go-around, wedged between a shipping container and the wall.

Din wearily walked to the little couch set into the wall and sat down, wincing at the pain across the back of his knee. He was really going to have to deal with that at some point. And his tunic was wet and itchy underneath the armor, which meant some kind of _laundry_ was in order.

“Kid, look. I see you back there. Just come out and get some food. Please.”

After a few moments of dead silence, Din dropped his helmeted head to his chest and blew out a frustrated breath. He stood and walked to where the kid was, ignoring his excited shrieks when Din came into view, and plucked him from his hiding place. He stared at the round, dark eyes for a moment, watched as he giggled and reached stubby hands out to touch his visor.

Finally, he shook his head and gently put the Child next to the food, which the youngling immediately waddled to and began to eat. Din felt a little guilty for that. He probably should have fed him a long time ago.

He sat there in silence for a few seconds, watching without seeing as his young charge filled himself up.

Din thought back to Lyrian’s acting and to the way she had struggled to present such a unified and stable front to him. While the Mandalorian generally tried to avoid looking too hard for too long into anyone’s face—especially into those of his bounties—he could read enough in someone’s face to know that, really, Lyrian was just a kid.

She used big words and could act convincingly enough that he almost believed her a few times, but he had seen her composure slip at almost every turn in their interaction. He had watched her fight to regain control, and while she won, she was still afraid. She was still vulnerable, even if she was strong, and he had enough vulnerability to last him a lifetime sitting next to him right now, eating jerky.

And he didn’t believe that she was an orphan either. Her words, though once again convincing, were just not convincing enough. More than likely, she was some restless kid running off to find adventure, and her parent or parents probably lived somewhere on Roxuro, or else were stopping by to refuel, rest, and/or sell some wares.

But then again, he hadn’t ever seen or _heard_ of the Chiss before—

Din stood up quickly. His thoughts were getting too scrambled. He gathered some antiseptic to apply to his sliced knee and then sat back down again, taking the opened medical patch from earlier and rubbing it between his fingers, half-wishing he could feel it on his actual skin.

“What do you think of her?”

The Child looked up at him with wonder in his eyes, as always, and a strip of jerky disappeared into his mouth. Soundlessly, the little one reached down, grabbed the cup, and sloppily inhaled the water.

Din dabbed at his wound through the slit the zabrak had made in his armor and stopped when he felt like it was stinging enough. Granted, it was probably still inadequately cleaned, but he didn’t feel like removing his armor and dealing with all of it right now. His mind was elsewhere, and with good reason. He finished up by slapping the medical patch haphazardly over the wound, and then he leaned back and sighed.

The Child, just finishing, burped and then looked at him, ears up.

“Mmm?”

Din nodded, heaved himself to his feet once more, and grabbed the entire package of jerky from the still-open cabinet in front of him. He gently took the Child up in his arms again and made his way to the hatch that led to the cockpit.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. More jerky.”

He felt no better about going through with his plan to leave Lyrian to her own devices by the time he had settled back into the pilot’s seat and situated the Child in his levitating pram with the rest of the jerky. If anything, he felt worse. He had decided upon it before he had even agreed to her unexpected request, and she had even saved him the trouble of making up an excuse for her to leave the ship by forgetting her…pet, or whatever it was.

But now—

He ran a few checks on the _Razor Crest_. Tried thinking back to any other leads he might have on the Child. He had gotten an obscure tip from an old contact not long ago, and he had followed it, knowing full well it might have been a trap but desperate to find out _anything_ that might help him locate the Child’s kind or give him more wisdom in dealing with the creature. The tip had led him here, to Roxuro, the location of the last bounty he had brought in before things had went to—well, since the Child had come into his life. Unfortunately, the elderly twi’lek he was supposed to meet was long dead, if he had ever existed, and now Din was without any information at all.

And then there was Lyrian.

Din looked back at the Child, who eating more slowly now. The Mandalorian was just glad he was able to wet the jerky down enough that the kid wasn’t gagging on it, like he had a few days ago, when he nearly scared Din out of his armor trying to get the stringy stuff out of his throat.

If he could, Din would definitely be rubbing his temples right about now.

“What am I going to do with both of you?” he muttered, turning back to his console.

Snow shuddered across his windshield, rippled across the rockfaces, skittered through the gloom like tiny ghosts. Almost of their own accord, it seemed, Din’s fingers drifted across the controls, flipping switches, pressing buttons, adjusting knobs and levers.

Before he knew it, his hand was resting lightly on the last lever, the one that would begin his lift-off. The one that would take him away from Roxuro, where every second he spent was another second Moff Gideon and all his Imps had to catch up to him so they could take the Child. The one that would also take him away from Lyrian, who had seemed so…familiar, for lack of a better word.

Din clenched his jaw.

He had a big enough burden as it was with the kid.

He was being hunted by some of the most dangerous people in the universe right now, which was no life for a kid anyway.

And he didn’t know anything about raising a nonverbal child as it was, much less one who could talk back and disobey and be stubborn. One who could lie and steal everything you owned and become pretty much anything she wanted just by playing the part.

Din’s fingers tightened around the lever, and everything in him seemed to gravitate towards pushing it forward, to taking off, to leaving her and her mission behind for someone else to deal with.

The child cooed behind him, and Din’s mind was made up.

He had one responsibility—a bigger one than he had ever had before. He had to save _this_ Child, and for both of their sakes, that meant he couldn’t afford to take on yet another liability. He couldn’t afford to go off on wild detours that could bring the Imps right to them, and he couldn’t get caught up in yet another wild, unknown plot that could cost him his life—and, more than that, the life of the powerful Child committed to his care.

His responsibility.

His foundling.

“This is the way,” Din said quietly, and the child babbled something behind him in response.

The Mandalorian pushed the lever forward, and the _Razor Crest_ lifted into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is NOT technically a new chapter. I just split the previous chapter into two parts--one part from Lyrian's POV and the other from Din's--to shorten it and keep it from being so daunting. Regardless of that fact and if you're new here, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know what you did and didn't like and how you think I could improve...I'm having a lot of fun with this so far.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by! Until next time! :)
> 
> -Roanoke  
> (James 4:17)


	4. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhh...Lyrian has issues she needs to work through, this alien-dude also has (anger) issues he seriously needs to deal with, and Mando learns just how hard being a parent is. Again.

He was gone.

The Mandalorian was gone.

Lyrian stood on the outcropping she had left no more than twenty minutes ago, her small form heaving with exertion from the climb back up, one hand wrapped protectively around the yielding mass of blankets that contained a groggy Pav. Before her was not a ship, as she had been expecting—no, _hoping—_ to see. There was only an irregular circle of exposed rock, spotted with puddles of grey slush and whorls of fine snow that had somehow escaped the heated onslaught of the _Razor Crest_ 's engines.

The rescue mission for Pav had gone over without a hitch—save for the few minutes she had to spend searching for the loose panels she could use to bypass the main ramp entrance. She had gotten in, found the myrzat still drowsing in the place Lyrian had left her, and then made her exit without the absent Cerean ever having a chance of being the wiser regarding her presence aboard his vessel. She had been musing on just how easy the whole operation had been—how it might have easily been another touch of whatever mysterious fates allowed her visions—when she reached the top of the outcropping.

Against all sound reason she had seen, the _feeling_ she had experienced as she left the Mandalorian and his strange companion had been founded. More than that, it had cost her, and now she was in a worse predicament than she had been before encountering the armored warrior.

A gust of particularly biting wind blew in from behind her, transforming her hair into a frenzy of dark strands that whipped at the tender skin of her face, and it was enough to force her out of her thoughts.

Lyrian lifted her free hand and brushed away crusts of ice that had formed on her eyelashes, eyebrows. She frowned at the place where the Mandalorian had been, something heavier than anger settling to the bottom of her stomach.

"May your ignorance remain forever upon the memory of your name," Lyrian said fiercely, quoting the Chiss proverb mechanically in a voice that was not her own. She honestly wasn't sure how she remembered the line, but it seemed very fitting in this instance.

She turned away, trying to get her thoughts back in order. She would need to find someone else to take her to Csilla—but she was going to have to avoid, somehow, those she had stolen from earlier. She also wanted someone who wasn't going to be interested in her personally—someone who would see her as a commodity, a rarity. If her gift was revealed or if the creature she employed knew anything of the Chiss, then it was likely she wasn't going to get safe passage anywhere helpful, least of all to her kind's homeworld and base of operations.

The Mandalorian had seemed to fit this description.

But apparently he didn't feel that she was worthy enough of his time or energy.

She had shown him she was more than a child, had she not? She had controlled herself using all the tools she had at her disposal; she had spoken proudly and firmly. She had offered him currency and, appealed to his sense of honor as a bounty hunter and, briefly, to his reputation as a fierce warrior of Mandalore. The logistics had been more or less executed correctly, which meant that the Mandalorian had lied to her and left for a different reason—one that Lyrian guessed had to do with _her_ not being or doing _enough_. The benefits of taking her offer did not outweigh the risks in his mind, she reasoned, so what could she have done differently? How could she have demonstrated the importance of the task she was undertaking?

Lyrian shook her head, recognizing once more how her thoughts had run away so quickly. She turned away from the clearing and began to make her way back down the steep path that had led her up here. Pav trilled in her blankets and tugged sleepily at the cloth of Lyrian's sleeve, and she adjusted her position until the myrzat settled back into a drug-induced half-doze.

She made it to the hill where the ship she had rescued Pav from sat, still and quiet in the growing intensity of the blizzard. She stared at it, and suddenly she felt exposed and tired and angry. She felt betrayed, though she knew, logically, she should not. She felt emptied out, as if she had given everything she had for a cause that was going nowhere. She felt the strain of her many waking hours in the pull of her muscles and the way her eyelids kept trying to close of their own accord.

And she felt something warm and wet in her eyes, leeching heat to the outside air as it encountered her skin. Lyrian sucked in a deep breath and raked her hands across her eyes until the offensive tears were nothing but a memory, and then she straightened up and scanned the landscape, looking for some small alcove where she could rest, gather her thoughts.

Because that is what she needed. Crying, of all accursed things, was not going to help her and was nothing but a remnant of her earliest years—perhaps a fault in her biology as a mere seven-year old being.

The Mandalorian had not abandoned her, as her feelings might claim. He had lied, yes, but he had chosen his way, as he was entitled to do. Logically, his choice had likely had little to do with her personally and more to do with the mysterious Child in his care. The intensity of the questions he posed to her regarding the little one seemed evidence enough of that fact without exploring the exact circumstances and history behind his presence with the warrior.

Regardless, the Mandalorian had decided that he did not want to deal with her and the ambitions that trailed behind her—and the reason behind that choice was of no consequence to her now, at this point.

She had only to move forward.

Forget about him.

Ignore the visions whose outcome she now had no control over.

Lyrian spotted a small overhang tucked behind and slightly above the collection of ratty ships residing in the clearing, and now she trudged towards it. It would provide minimal cover and a good vantage point over the ships below while she rested and thought her next moves out.

But before she could make it there, there was a sharp pain in her temples and on her neck, something cold against her skin, a sudden wave of musky air—

Lyrian pitched forward and fell into darkness.

* * *

The hunter stood over his fallen target.

He licked his lips, flexed his fingers, waited and debated. It was not in his nature to perform a job like this. It was not in his nature to restrain from killing or imprisoning or to follow the orders of a creature so young and unstable—as he did now. It was in his nature to stick to the shadows, flit from kill to kill following the scent of blood, to remain anonymous and cloaked.

But he was not given a choice in this matter, and he had been promised a fine reward despite that fact, so he did as he told no matter how idiotic it was.

The hulking figure bent down and turned the Chiss youngling over, wasting no time in wrenching the bag off of her side and tucking it into one of the numerous folds of his tunic. His eyes fell on the target—the bundle lying under her, which had narrowly missed being fallen on. He grabbed it roughly and stood, ignoring the pained squeals of the creature inside and the convulsions as it tried to escape the giant hand gripping it.

He fumbled inside a pocket of his tunic with his free hand before withdrawing a small round device and then sweeping the top of the blanket off of the myrzat he held, revealing its vaguely reptilian face, its eerily reddish mammalian eyes. The creature, obviously still under partial influence of a sedative, blinked up at him and bared tiny teeth in warning.

The hunter grinned and jammed the device onto the side of its neck, depressing a button in the center as soon as the device made contact with skin. The myrzat let out another high-pitched shriek in pain, but was then back to twisting, trying to break free, grunting in effort. The hunter snorted, wanting nothing more than to snap the sorry creature's neck. He slapped the blanket back over the creature.

There wasn't even a mark where the device's contents had been injected into the myrzat's skin, and the thing would show no signs of it being there unless there was a malfunction in the technology. Which wouldn't happen.

The hunter tucked the bundle under his arm and surveyed his work. He had been assured the Chiss would not die before his mission was fully accomplished—her kind was adapted to the cold. She would wake in mere minutes, her memories muddled, completely ignorant as to the nature of this operation. Her myrzat wouldn't be going anywhere in this climate, warm-blooded as it was.

He and the others the human sent with him had been watching her since she had first started dogging the Mandalorian. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for them given how short his patience was with their antics—the dumb bounty hunters had been too obvious with it and were killed by the Mandalorian himself while he was reporting this new development to their employer.

But now the sight of her laying there, hair a dark cloud billowing from behind her head, freakishly red eyes closed in unconsciousness—well, he wanted nothing more than to end her pitiful life right there and then. It would be fitting retribution for the inconveniences her presence and kleptomania had caused him, though he had to admit his employer would be…less than kind about it. And he didn't feel like dealing with that. Not today, at least.

The entire process was a lot more conspicuous than the hunter liked and was used to, but he grudgingly supposed its long-term consequences—as he had been informed by his employer—would pay off. And there was always the enticement of reward for his services, however squandered they were.

The hunter huffed and plucked the Chiss from the ground as if she were nothing more than a satchel. He carried her to the rocky projection she had been trying to get to and laid her there deliberately, as if she had lain down to sleep, and then placed the bundle under her arm. He backed away and spared a last glance at the scene, just long enough to ensure he hadn't missed anything of vital importance.

As he left her behind, returning to his vessel, he carefully swiped at his tracks, trusting that the falling snow itself would do the rest of the work in obliterating any signs of his presence.

When he had settled back into his cockpit, he pressed a few buttons, waited. A hologram of his employer flickered to life in front of him.

"The biotracker is placed," the hunter said gruffly. Just the sight of this man, with his carefully groomed facial features and that smug Imperial smile, made him want to go on a murderous rampage—with him as the finale.

"Excellent. You are certain that the tracker is permanent? It will not alert the targets as to its presence?"

"Right."

There was a pause.

"Very well, _grysk_. You have the rest of your orders—and your incentive. The Mandalorian _will_ return for the Chiss youngling, but you are _not_ to engage. Follow them from a distance. I need not remind you of the consequences if you fail?"

The grysk hunter fought back the urge to smile at the human's ignorance, though the dormant rage flared in his chest at how he treated him—a grysk warrior!—so patronizingly. He clenched his fingers until he felt his own claws pierce his flesh. He inhaled the iron scent of his own blood, a breath of fresh air in the dank interior of his ship. It was enough at the moment to scatter the anger.

"Yes."

"Good. You have proven yourself quite useful. That will be rewarded in more ways than one when the betrayal is complete."

The hunter nodded, and the human's eyebrows dipped down. He appeared to wrestle for words, and then his revolting smile was back. He stared at the creature through the hologram as if he were a wayward child in need of his guidance and care, as if he _pitied_ the creature he had employed—

The grysk pulled his lips back from his teeth in an unbidden snarl, but the man was already speaking again.

"I will expect a report of your progress in two days' time."

Pause.

"And if I were you, grysk, I would do something about that smile of yours. It seems…rusty."

Another smile, deeper this time, jagged with warning.

The hologram clicked out, and the grysk let out a roar, slamming his fist on the console of his ship, which issued a pitiful crack from the force.

One day—perhaps very soon—Moff Gideon would pay in blood for his insolence, and it would be a far weightier payment than even the Mandalorian's.

* * *

Things started going wrong as soon as Din left Roxuro.

Almost as soon as the _Razor Crest_ exited orbit, it began crow-hopping, trembling and groaning as if it were about to break apart at any moment. Din cursed, running through a mental checklist of everything it could be even as his fingers and eyes ran frantically across all of the switches, the buttons, the levers, the lights.

It took him a few panicky moments before he realized that it could only be one thing—seeing as he had refueled and ran a thorough diagnostics on Roxuro _and_ his ship had literally been rebuilt and had maintenance work done not long before: the Stabilizing Toggle. Din bent over in his seat and reached up and under the console, to where he vaguely remembered there being a corresponding switch. He reached, finding nothing until—

His fingers closed on soft cloth.

"What the—"

He grasped the cloth and pulled out the Child wrapped in it, who let out a coo of satisfaction at being found. Din sighed and pulled the green infant into his lap before reaching down with the other hand and flipping the switch back into the _on_ position. The ship calmed almost immediately. Din looked at the Child.

"I've told you about messing with the ship," he said.

The Child's ears twitched and he cooed again, a more disgruntled one this time. As if _he_ were irritated at being scolded. Din raised a finger.

"Don't. Touch. Things."

"Ooohh-ooh."

As he looked down at the kid, knowing there was no way his warning was going to be heeded this time either, he was reminded again of Lyrian—of how she looked at him as she stepped out into the snow. It was similar to the look the kid in his lap was giving him now, a mixture of hope and confusion.

Or maybe he was just imagining things.

Din gave the Child a crumbling belt he had found lying around for some unknown reason, placed the kid in the chair beside him, and then put his hands back on the controls.

Ten minutes later—or maybe it was twenty—he turned around to check on the very quiet and very well-behaved Child, and he was gone.

Din sighed and stood up. He needed to stretch anyway. Maybe the kid hadn't found the weapons cabinets _yet_ —

Though, of course, that was too much to ask because when he descended into the belly of the ship, there was the Child. And a _whole_ lot of mess—weapons, clothing, food, and other random gadgets lay scattered across the floor, a maelstrom of junk and potentially dangerous playthings. Din cursed in Mando'a for the second time in half an hour and jumped to the ground with a clang.

The Child looked up, an old vambrace forgotten halfway to his mouth. Din jerked it away from him. Good thing he kept his weapons deactivated or secured with guards, or this could have been very, very bad.

"How did you even make this big of a mess?"

The Child's ears tilted backwards slightly, and he held his hands up to be picked up.

"You were gone ten minutes."

Silence. Wiggling fingers.

Din sighed and picked him up.

"You're going to get yourself killed playing around in here."

Din regretted saying that even as it came out of his mouth because instantly his head was full of all the ways that definitely _could_ happen. And Lyrian had popped into his head again, helpfully reminding him that if she died because she went back out there and encountered some ticked-off alien she had stolen from, it would technically be his fault.

And there was that other thought, the one that just didn't go away.

What if she really was an orphan, like she said?

What if he had abandoned her, just as he had almost permanently abandoned the little green womp rat cradled in his arm right now?

He looked again at the Child, who made a happy little squeal when he sensed Din's gaze on his face. Din really wanted to just take off his helmet and wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead. He grunted.

"We'll clean this up later," he said quietly, already dreading the menial task. "How about some…sleep?"

He could only hope—

And yet hope wasn't enough either because in just five minutes this time, Din looked back to find the Child missing _again_. He jumped to his feet and stormed down the ladder, expecting to see him pawing through all of the junk on the floor. He wasn't there.

In fact, he wasn't anywhere until nearly an hour later, when Din found him curled into a niche in the wall as far away as one could get from the cockpit in the _Crest_. He was streaked with dust and cobwebs, and when Din finally stopped in front of him, now sweating way too much in his armor, hearing his pounding heart far too loudly inside of the helmet, he looked up at Din and actually frowned.

It was the first time he had seen such a blatantly human look on the creature's face, and it was more than a little disconcerting.

This was the same way Lyrian had frowned at him, wasn't it? That kind of disappointedly intelligent frown that said he was being an idiot and should probably stop. Din stared down at the Child, who was being uncharacteristically quiet and still as he looked into the helmeted face of his guardian.

After a moment, Din finally spoke.

"You're going to have to stop."

Of course, the Child didn't answer.

"I can't watch you _and_ fly the ship _and_ figure out what we're going to do next."

When the Child didn't reply with even another coo, Din frowned himself and picked him up. It was like the green infant was trying to do the exact opposite of everything that was cooperative and good for surviving.

What followed that final furious search for the Child could only be described as a series of rather unfortunate events. No matter where Din went or what he tried to do, the Child was there, babbling incessantly, making distressed noises that had him so on edge any thought of much-needed rest or the chance to eat away from the kid fled for their lives as soon as Din heard them.

When Din sat down to pilot the ship and think about their next destination, the Child was there, climbing up his shin guards and reaching for buttons, making an irritable squeal whenever Din tried to remove him.

When Din tried to clean up the mess the Child had made earlier, trusting the ship to guide itself through the calmer areas of the galaxy, the robed baby was constantly at his feet, holding his hands up to be picked up and pulling things from the shelves as soon as Din placed them there.

No food, no blankets begging to be napped on, no glasses of water, and no gadgets to play with seemed to satisfy the Child. He just wanted to be held. Or played with directly. Or _something_.

But Din couldn't help that every time he even considered just playing with the Child, his thoughts inexplicably turned to Lyrian. To her being a _kid_. To her quite possibly being an orphan in need of something—even if she was curiously adept at deception and reasoning and could most likely handle herself mentally on her own.

She would have been killed by those lowlifes back on Roxuro if he hadn't been there.

Din sat down heavily in the pilot's chair once more, facing the vast mouth of space. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The helmet was baking inside, and his skin still crawled where the cloth beneath his armor had stuck to it after drying. He opened his eyes and tilted his head down at a gentle—yet expected—pressure on his knee.

The Child stood looking at him with both hands on his armored knee, brows crumpled low across his eyes. He let out a distinctly irritated gurgle. Din sighed.

"What do you want?"

"Oooh…AiieeEE."

Din let out a quiet groan in frustration and leaned forward until his elbows rested on the console. He tried focusing on the gentle hum of the ship underneath his boots to calm himself, but to no avail. There were two beings who were absolutely refusing to leave his mind.

After only a few seconds sitting there, ignoring the Child as he clambered into his lap and tried to make it onto the console beside his elbows, Din looked up sharply. The Child startled and plopped onto his backside in Din's lap.

"Fine!" Din said, loudly.

"Fine," he admitted again, quieter this time.

The Child's ears drooped, his face assuming a wounded expression as his tiny hands hesitantly moved too late to block his ears from the offensive and likely unexpected noise. Din noticed immediately and sighed. Again. He gently lowered the infant's hands and pulled him away from his precarious position on the edge of his lap.

"Sorry. I wasn't talking to you," he said with conviction. The Child cooed back about as intensely, querying gaze searching Din's impassive helmet for any clue as to what was really going on. And maybe he found something there because he settled down a moment later, making a few contented grunts as he wedged himself between Din's Beskar and the rim of the console. It was the first time in a while he had been relatively still, and Din took advantage of that fact.

This time, the Mandalorian didn't hesitate as his hands moved over the ship's controls and eventually pushed the final lever forward.

The _Razor Crest_ zoomed back towards Roxuro, moving faster than it had ever left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLLOOOOOO. AGAIN. WELCOME. AGAIN.
> 
> Ahem. I hope you enjoyed that chapter...it was fun to write but also quite difficult to write. In fact, this was the second-completely-different version of this chapter I've written, and hopefully it does something for the plot, your interest, and the characters (unlike the first version). Also, I have an admission to make: I DID completely make up the "Thulian myrzat", just as I took the liberty to name the ice planet Mando was on in Episode 1 Roxuro. Please forgive me (whew...I've had that one on my chest for a while now ;)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, leave kudos, and/or comment. Your support truly means more than you know, and I can only hope and pray that I can continue to spread what little joy or entertainment this fic brings you. XD
> 
> Until next time, friends, please know that you are loved and you are not alone. Ever. :)  
> -Roanoke  
> (Galatians 5:13-14)


	5. The Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyrian finds out that sometimes not having control stinks, but good thing Mando is a big softie at heart or she probably would be TOAST.

Lyrian could feel anger simmering in her chest—in addition to whatever else was wrong with her.

She leaned back against the rock face, staring at the creamy sky, now devoid of snowflakes and sleet, and tried to soothe an aggressive Pav. The cold myrzat was bunched against the sensitive skin of her belly, desperately trying to warm herself in the subzero temperatures and simultaneously letting Lyrian know all about it. Beyond what she was already doing, Lyrian could think of nothing else to alleviate the suffering of the creature.

She had actually woken up about two hours before.

It had taken her a full hour to get to a place where any of her thoughts made sense and where the timeline of the past day was not hopelessly confused. She had woken up in the snow with no recollection of having been hit or moving toward this overhang, a nasty bruise radiating throbs of pain around the circumference of her skull, her stomach churning.

She had tried and failed repeatedly to delineate the major events of her time on this planet. She remembered, of course, the Mandalorian and his Child, the way he had saved her, the way he had left her behind. But she found that trying to piece together the small events in between—the details of what had happened—was like grasping at her own image in a pool of murky water; every attempt only made it harder to see what she was trying to reach for in the first place.

So, she had stopped, temporarily shelving the issue as a matter of head trauma—she had been struck severely in the head twice in the span of twenty-four hours after all. That was bound to cause some damage given her physical age and subsequent limitations. Instead, she had spent the last hour attempting to concoct a plan in which she survived, remained a free Chiss, and somehow got to Csilla without the aid of the Mandalorian.

Or supplies.

Or money.

Or food.

Needless to say, she had come up with nothing but the vague idea to wait until the patrons in the village below cycled out and were replaced with scumbags she hadn't stolen from—people who had no reason to seek revenge for the theft of their possessions. Yet.

Maybe she could find a cheap ride to _somewhere_ among the deplorables who frequented the bars here. It wouldn't be ideal, but being lied to and left behind by the Mandalorian, getting knocked unconscious and robbed, and watching her myrzat slowly freeze on her lap wasn't ideal either.

Lyrian fingered the blaster that her attacker had for some reason left alone, the one the Mandalorian had given her. She frowned, sighed, and leaned her head back again. At least its presence meant she wasn't wholly unprotected.

It was then, as drowsiness slowly sucked her into its enticing spiral, that she saw him.

The Mandalorian.

Right in front of her.

Her pulse jumped immediately, and she sat up before she could think about it. She knew her eyes were wide with an unwanted display of surprise, but there were two equally shocking theories dueling in her head. One was very, very bad, and the other was the total opposite: either he was coming back because he had found out more about her or he was returning to uphold his end of the deal.

Only one of those theories seemed plausible, though, given her previous interaction with the Mandalorian.

She sat there, stiff, fingers curling around the borrowed blaster, as the warrior came towards her. He had somehow spotted her despite how small she was and how inconspicuous her resting place was amidst the surrounding stone, and he walked with quick steps that belied an urgency in reaching his destination. That fact alone was enough to encourage her budding suspicions regarding his intentions toward her.

But she knew one thing: she wasn't going to go back to her skughole after all the progress she had made in such a short amount of time.

But when the Mandalorian reached her and paused in front of her, he didn't grab for her. He didn't knock her unconscious or drag her to his ship against her will. He inclined his head toward her and said:

"Are you hurt?"

Lyrian blinked at him. That was not what she was expecting; yet again, he had managed to completely subvert her expectations. She swallowed, and the anger in her chest reared its head.

"No," she lied. Because, really, there _was_ something going on with her reasoning and memory capabilities—not to mention the physical stiffness around her joints and the knots on her head and the deep sleepiness that lingered around the edges of her consciousness. But that was neither her nor there in regards to him.

She crossed her arms, and Pav grunted beneath the extra pressure, muffled and weak. She could feel her form shivering. Worry flared inside of her.

"Did you get the rat?"

Lyrian resisted the urge to correct the Mandalorian's gross mislabeling of Pav and instead found herself drawing her knees up protectively—somehow she had managed to curl herself into a ball over the course of their brief interaction, and she hadn't even known it. She stared at the Mandalorian's helmet and decided she really resented the unreadable thing.

"Why are you here?" she asked, her words coming out as venomously as an accusation, which, logically, she knew she really had no claim on making. She was the thief and as much of a deceiver—if not more so—than the Mandalorian. And why should she question his return if it might ruin whatever slim chance she might have of making it to Csilla in spite of all that had happened thus far?

To his credit, however, the Mandalorian didn't seem to mind her antagonism; when he spoke, his voice was low, even.

"Our deal."

Lyrian blinked at him again, and though her heartbeat was already returning to its normal rhythm at the supposed confirmation that she wasn't going to be dragged back to where she had come from, she still didn't trust him. She ran through a few of the things she could say, the many questions she could ask— _why did you leave? why did you come back? what about the Child?_ —and then settled on an admission. Her gaze dropped to the Mandalorian's boots.

"I have no way to pay you for your services anymore," she murmured. She focused on her reaction to what was going and found that her fingers were too tight against the blaster. She relaxed them ever so slightly as she waited for his response.

There was a moment of hesitance immediately after her statement, and then a word in a language she didn't know, spoken so softly that it was a mere wisp of static seeping through his modulator. Most likely he was cursing his poor luck, which she had done a lot of herself lately.

She had resigned herself to the notion that he was going to leave again when he spoke again.

"It doesn't matter."

Her eyes snapped upwards to his visor, and she searched the black band for any signs of emotion despite knowing that it would reveal nothing—a course of habit, she supposed.

As soon as she opened her mouth to respond, she knew it was the wrong move because her thoughts paraded past her tongue like squabbling tauntauns, shoving, scraping, overeager in the worst way possible. The end result was an unintelligent garble that Lyrian knew she would regret for at least a few days to come.

"I…but—"

"Come on," the Mandalorian interrupted, voice flat. He extended a gloved hand to help her up, which Lyrian stared at as if it could burn her. For all she knew, it could, in more ways than one. Her mind raced, her heart and head pounded in synchrony, uncertainty flooded her veins.

She looked at him again. His head turned ever so slightly in the direction of the outcropping where the _Razor Crest_ had been hours ago.

"We need to get back to the ship before the kid realizes I'm gone."

* * *

"You can sit wherever," the Mandalorian said, gesturing vaguely toward the cluttered interior of his ship.

Lyrian peered around, scanned the spread of intriguing gadgets haphazardly covering the floor, wondered what, exactly, had happened in the brief span of time between the Mandalorian's departure and his return. Eventually, her eyes settled on the niche where the Mandalorian had applied the medical patch she still wore on her shoulder.

She looked her retreating benefactor, unsure of what she should say but feeling the need to say something.

Saying 'thank you' seemed odd considering she still didn't know why he had come back for her—she had shown herself to be all too susceptible to attack already, and she was of a species rare enough that there had to be _some_ filth, perhaps a Hutt if there were any out there, who would pay to take her as a slave, a commodity. There wasn't much to indicate that the Mandalorian didn't have some gruesome or otherwise unpleasant end planned for her, either, and she was entirely at his mercy.

But then again—

"Thank you," she said quietly, before he began the ascent to the cockpit and the moment passed. If anything, maybe her gratitude would make him rethink any dastardly plans he wanted to set in motion.

The Mandalorian paused and turned his helmet enough that he could have been looking at her from over his shoulder.

"You're welcome."

And then he was moving up the ladder.

Lyrian stood there for a moment, hands cradled under a thawing Pav. When she began to feel again the ache in her ankles and knees, the weight of her long vigil in her tired limbs, she sighed and quieted the hum of her thoughts.

The ship began to lift off the ground as she gently set Pav down on the couch and then slid up beside her, running her gaze around the room again to try to discern more about this mysterious warrior who had so inexplicably become a part of her life.

"He's certainly not the cleanest type, huh?" she muttered, looking down at Pav. The myrzat cracked open her pinkish eyes and gave Lyrian a single annoyed _chirrup_ , then curled into a tighter ball on Lyrian's lap.

At least the likelihood of Pav surviving had skyrocketed now that she was out of the cold.

Lyrian crossed her dangling feet and leaned back on both hands, suddenly aware that she would likely recover faster and more wholly if she could catch some sleep right now, while the Mandalorian was busy piloting the ship.

Once she had some sleep, perhaps she could reason through why he had come back for her and what she was supposed to do, why he had decided he needed no payment from her. And maybe she could also find a way to make him talk. She wanted to find out why he had the powerful Child with him and where he was going.

The more she understood his motivations and personality, the better equipped she would be to deal with any obstacles that might arise in the future. And the better she could fight against him should he have any ulterior motives—most likely in a psychological rather than a physical sense.

Satisfied with the fragments of logic she conjured from this line of thinking, Lyrian gently adjusted her position until she was lying on her side. Pav grumpily moved a few inches above her head and sprawled with her spine pushed against the wall.

It felt good, Lyrian thought, to let her muscles relax against the padded seat beneath her, and though she was wet from having virtually rolled in the snow, she found that she didn't mind it too much. She was too tired to care, really.

Pav, too, seemed content to lapse into sleep. The sedative hadn't completely worn off yet, and the myrzat had likely expended no small amount of energy fighting or otherwise avoiding the attack on Lyrian earlier.

Why the robber hadn't killed the little creature was beyond her mental capabilities at the moment—

Sleep had almost claimed her when she heard the _tap tap_ of the Mandalorian's boots on the ladder. Nausea took up residence in her stomach again, and she sat up quickly enough that it almost became something more than that. Pav startled, complained.

The Mandalorian had the Child tucked in one arm, and now he stepped softly off the ladder. His helmet's position implied that he neither looked at Lyrian nor acknowledged her presence as he stepped across the floor and very slowly lowered the infant—whom she could now see was asleep—on the end of the couch farthest from Lyrian.

When the Child was resting peacefully upon the synthetic leather and barely stirred as the Mandalorian's hands left him, she could hear the warrior sigh. _Now_ his helmet turned to her. He stepped back.

"He shouldn't wake for at least an hour. It'd be best if he wasn't disturbed."

The meaning was clear: 'don't be too loud, kid, it took way too long to get him to sleep.'

The mess and the Mandalorian's frequent sighs told her all she needed to know about his caregiving skills. Lyrian found a half-smile breaking through her strained composure.

"Alright," she whispered.

The Mandalorian turned to survey the mess in the floor, and Lyrian thought she heard yet another sigh.

After a few loaded seconds in which Lyrian watched him bend down, retrieve, and gradually collect choice objects in the cradle of his arms, she ventured to break the silence with a question, asked at a volume just above a whisper.

"What is all of that?"

The reply was steady and measured, as if he had been expecting her to ask him a question for a while now. The thought of that made the unease in her gut blossom further. She did not like being the one who was one step behind.

"Junk. The kid did it."

"Why do you have so many useless things for him to get into, then?"

Maybe it was unwise for Lyrian to even engaged the Mandalorian—especially in such a straightforward manner—but she guessed that this was as good of a lead-in to a conversation as she was going to be able to get.

The Mandalorian straightened and dropped what looked like an empty ammunition cartridge onto the growing pile in his arms.

"I don't clean up that often."

Lyrian found this amusing, though she didn't know exactly why, and, encouraged by his mild response to her query, she decided to go a step further.

"What's the plan, then? I mean, about where we're going."

Pause, perhaps as the Mandalorian considered how much he was going to say or if he was going to answer at all.

"We're going to Csilla. The long way around."

Lyrian considered this.

"And you know where it is? You seemed not to know of my kind at all."

The Mandalorian turned to her, hearing the skeptical note in her voice. She was going to have to work on her presentation—she had no excuse for it to slip, even if she was tired.

"I know enough. And I know some people."

Lyrian smirked before she fully thought out how that might affect her new escort. The Unknown Regions where her homeland was located weren't called 'unknown' for no reason.

"Ever heard of Sharb? Sposia? Naporar?"

Her list of planets close to Csilla in the Chiss Ascendancy was met with a sullen silence, and once more she found herself imagining a look of pained annoyance on the face of the person underneath. She glanced at the sleeping Child, who looked so completely innocent in sleep that it made her want to give the little creature a hug, even if that was completely against every other instinct she had.

She peered curiously at the Mandalorian's helmet, trying to craft a face for him based on the general shape of his helmet and the appearance of the Child. It would help her guage his response to things if she had at least some semblance of a face to imagine.

And since she was focused on that, she decided to indulge in at least one less related question. She was curious anyway, and this would help test the waters, possibly allow her to learn more about her companion.

"Why have you not removed your helmet yet? We're safer now that we're in your ship, yes?"

Dead silence, and then, as the Mandalorian turned away from her—

"I can't."

He unceremoniously dumped his load of 'junk' into a corner, where it landed with a violent clang and elicited a quick intake of breath from the Mandalorian. He glanced at the Child sleeping on the end of Lyrian's couch, and both of them relaxed when they saw that the infant hadn't even stirred. Lyrian spared a glance at Pav to see that she hadn't stirred, either.

That was probably for the best. She could be a mischievous creature when she had the energy to be—much like the Child, she assumed, if the Mandalorian's anxiety over the young one waking up was rightly placed.

Lyrian tuned back into her thoughts and the general feeling pervading the space between herself and the Mandalorian.

"Why?"

"I'm a Mandalorian," he replied, as if that explained everything. And then, more firmly, "It's our creed."

Lyrian narrowed her eyes. This wasn't what she had tried to remember earlier, about the Mandalorians' armor, but it was news to her anyway. And something very interesting that might prove useful sometime soon. She dropped the matter and continued to what she should have said before

"I can guide you, if you want. I know where we need to go, and the Unknown Regions aren't so unknown to me, not really." She paused, wondering if that had been the proper way to phrase it. She didn't want him getting suspicious and digging into exactly why that was.

"That way, you can get rid of me faster, since I can't pay you anyway."

She added that as an extra incentive, to soften the potential blow to his pride.

The Mandalorian grunted in acknowledgement but remained turned away from her. He picked something else up, inspected it, and then tossed it into the pile of discard he had already made.

"I need something more than that from you. I need the truth."

Lyrian stiffened at the solemnity of the rather ambiguous statement, instantly on the defensive. Maybe she _had_ said too much. Maybe she had offended him in some way. Maybe now he was going to show what he really wanted from their temporary partnership.

She waited, breath on hiatus, listening to the thrum of her heart in her ribs and the blood through her veins.

"Are you an orphan?"

Lyrian furrowed her brows, unsure and intimidated by why this would be important to him. She decided to remain consistent.

"Yes. My parents died about two years ago. They were merchants."

She decided to let him fill in the blanks there. She had heard of enough merchants being betrayed, blown up, dumped in an alley somewhere simply for dealing with the wrong customers to know that this was a plausible story.

"You're alone?"

Lyrian averted her eyes from her interrogator and stroked Pav, tracing the ridges over her eyes, running her fingers from the tip of her broad nose to the tip of her heavy tail.

She wasn't sure what he meant. If he was asking if she was traveling with someone, then the answer was a no. But seeing as he obviously knew that much, he had to be asking about something else. Her family—did she have siblings? Was she supposed to be with someone else? If the question was referring to the latter, then the answer was a yes; to the former, it was a no as well. As far as she knew, of course.

Lyrian brought a hand to her temple and touched it gingerly. Her headache was returning. She wanted to sleep. She didn't understand why these questions mattered, and maybe she would have normally been more guarded with her answers, but again she found herself telling another half-truth.

"I wasn't. I was with another Chiss for a while. Kell. But he's—he's dead now."

He wasn't dead as far as she knew, but it would be less complicated if the Mandalorian didn't know that. She was still young, after all, and if she were really orphaned at five years old, it would only make sense she would have been dependent on another until she could handle herself—why couldn't the Mandalorian believe that Kell was her protector rather than what he really was?

Maybe, too, after seeing the forced quiver in her lip, the Mandalorian would choose not to probe any further on this subject.

That part, at least, paid off. The Mandalorian was quiet for a moment before he continued along a different line.

"Why do you want to go to Csilla?"

Once, she had a sound answer to that question, but now that she had no leverage and no money, she knew her 'mind your own business and I'll mind mine' reply wasn't going to be enough. She cast around for a response and finally had to settle on the truth. Or a version of it, at least.

"I discovered I had family there," she said, quietly, as if this were almost a sacred thing. And then, before he could say anything else, she asked him one of her own questions.

"Why did _you_ come back for me?"

The Mandalorian turned quickly around at that, as if she had broken the only cord restraining some nervous energy inside of him.

Before she could stop it, her body, informed by years of seeing this exact movement and knowing that what came next was bad, jerked, stiffened, curled in on itself. She cringed, and though she recovered as quickly as she could since the Mandalorian wasn't coming any closer, she could only hope he hadn't noticed.

"Get some sleep," he said after the pause, voice gruffer than before. "There's food on the floor or in the cabinet if you need it. Don't touch the kid."

Lyrian frowned but nodded anyway. Him ignoring her questions was annoying, but she supposed she would have to bear and accept it for now considering her total dependence on him. The offer of food was a good sign, though, as was the fact that he was leaving her alone with the Child. It seemed he trusted her that much.

And she was finally going to be able to get some sleep.

The Mandalorian left her once more, but, surprisingly, as he did so, he pressed something on the side of the wall, and the lights in their compartment dimmed considerably. Lyrian laid back down, still frowning, unsure if the action was meant to help ensure that the Child remained asleep or if it was somehow to help her.

She laid there for what seemed an intolerably long time.

She was still exhausted, but there was something nagging at her once more, and this time, she didn't want to risk ignoring it completely.

This situation was strange. She had been without any prospects at all before the Mandalorian showed up, but was it not his fault in the first place that she had been off-guard enough to be robbed blind by an assailant she had neither heard nor seen?

The youngling turned over and stared at the sleeping Child at her feet. He must have been dreaming because every now and then he would let out the faintest coo and his little face would wrinkle even further into consternation and the three fingers on one of his hands would extend as if he were reaching for something.

And that was what made her think to do it.

She needed to find out more about what lay ahead of her. She needed to use her gift—which she planned to keep a secret from the Mandalorian for as long as possible. She was going to have to capture a vision, however brief and however thin, of anything that might pose a serious threat to her life.

She had done it many times before, and usually anything she saw was directly related to her in some way. But it was draining.

Lyrian sat up quietly and rubbed the back of her hands, peered across the room.

Maybe she had enough energy to probe just a little bit.

In general, the visions were concrete images or objects, things she could look at or feel or understand in a broad sense. If she could get something— _anything_ —that might warn or else reassure her of the future she would be navigating soon, it could mean the difference between freedom and slavery, life and death.

She sucked in a breath and cocked her head as she picked up on the faintest traces of speech filtering down from above, an almost imperceptible vibration weaving in between the usual noises of the ship. It sounded as if the Mandalorian was talking—but to whom? Himself? Bounty hunters? The ones she had fled from?

Lyrian shuddered. None of those were good options. She squared her shoulders and slid to her feet, paused, thought. She tugged off her boots and let them tilt against the floor and then let out a sigh as she wiggled her newly-freed toes against the cool metal beneath them.

Her eyelids slipped down.

She steeled herself.

Quieted all that was around and within her—

And then she let the energy that always tugged at her in, let it curl around the edges of her mind, wind itself throughout her body.

She harnessed the wildness of it as she had been shown to do, feeling the raw and wild power that was the Force fold itself into her skull, just behind her eyes—

And then Lyrian saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the late posting here. I have literally written, scrapped, and rewritten this particular chapter a good five times or so, and this is what the end result looks like. Sometimes it just has to...feel right, you know? So yes. Thanks for stopping by and thanks to everyone who has taken the time to give me your thoughts on this. Now that Lyrian and Mando are stuck with one another, things should be picking up (and yes, there's going to be some fluff because this is FANFICTION, people). Also, the next chapter, which will probably be pretty short and entirely from Din's POV, will have Cara in it, so stay tuned for that.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and I'm looking forward to hearing from you! Stay safe, know I'm praying for you, and know we can get through these ridiculously convoluted times. ;)
> 
> Until then!
> 
> -Roanoke  
> (John 3:16)


	6. Allied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good for the soul and spirit friends are. The truth this is--mostly.
> 
> I have spoken.

Din couldn’t resist it any longer.

As soon as he was safely tucked into the cockpit, he tugged his helmet off and stood there, relishing the feeling of this rare moment of freedom. The unfiltered air that swept across his borderline feverish skin felt beyond good, and he had to suck in several deep breaths before he felt as if all the old air was cleared from his lungs. Who knew when he would get another moment of indulgence like this now that he had not one but _two_ kids on board.

The Mandalorian shook his head at the thought, feeling all at once the uncertainty of how he had managed to get himself into such a strange position. And then the helmet was back on. The fresh air vanished. The bone-deep weariness returned with a vengeance.

He let out a quiet groan as he leaned back into the pilot’s seat.

How many days had it been since he’d gotten a decent few hours of sleep? Three? Four? And food. When was the last time he had eaten a proper meal? The desperate few times he’d managed to get in a couple of bites before the Child woke from his unpredictably-timed naps hardly counted. Proper hydration also seemed to have gone out the window some time back, which would explain the fatigue and the headache.

Din sighed again, aware of just how much of that he was doing lately but also at a complete loss for how to avoid it. Life had become a lot more frustrating in the past few weeks, and it wasn’t as if he had any better way to let the universe know that he had noticed.

But enough of that.

He could sleep with his helmet on, find a time to eat and drink a bit of something before moving on. That wasn’t a problem, as he’d done it countless times before. The fact was that he desperately needed all three of those things if he was going to be alert enough to deal with anything else that came their way. Something told him that he and the Child were still far from being off the Remnant’s radar, and Lyrian’s presence and request to return to her people on Csilla was no doubt going to set them up for some grief in the near future.

Which reminded him of a few things he had picked up on during his last conversation with Lyrian.

Din twisted a knob on the console as he went back over the exchange in his head, and the lights in the cockpit flared a little brighter. Now the cozy space felt less like a potential napping area and more like the main base of operations it was. It was surprising how much of an effect lighting could have on his ability to focus.

But Lyrian.

She was definitely lying, for starters. About what, he couldn’t say exactly. But the snatches of her story didn’t quite jive together, and she had handed them to him with such a blank ease that they had to have been practiced. That in and of itself was a reason to be guarded; Din still wasn’t sure why she had seemed so purposeful in seeking him out, after all.

Two, he _had_ seen her flinch when he had begun to approach her earlier. That wouldn’t normally be a cause for concern for him, seeing as nearly every bounty he had ever gone after had displayed such jumpiness—and more—any time he so much as stepped into their line of sight. But this was different.

She was young. She was alone. If she was being hunted or was running from something, her problem had just become his problem—whether he liked it or not. If he was to stay one step ahead of whatever was going on—and by doing so, keep the Child, too—he needed more information.

Which was why, before he gave in completely to the temptation of sleep, he needed to talk to one of his contacts. Din cocked his seat to the side, half-facing the right wall so he could prop both his feet on the rim of the console.

He reached forward, wincing at the minor stab of pain his knee supplied in response, and adjusted the necessary controls to boot up his Holographic communication system. The ship hadn’t originally been outfitted with such a network, but he had managed to rig one up a few years ago with the help of some frightened mechanics, too many credits, and raw willpower. The Holos had saved him some long trips and allowed him many more contacts than he would have gotten otherwise. Even if they were a pain to mess with half the time.

He hesitated for at least a few seconds over the final button, reconsidering getting anyone else involved in his newest set of problems—and then, assured by the reminder that he was looking exclusively for information and not physical involvement, he punched it.

A few moments passed, and then a flickering Hologram materialized on its respective circular pad. Din let out a quiet breath of relief at seeing that the call had gone through—and that there seemed to be no obvious explosions or shootouts taking place in the background. The Holo didn’t do well with external disturbances.

“Mando.”

There was a note of unrestrained surprise in her voice as she answered.

Din nodded in greeting.

“Dune. I…have a favor to ask of you.”

Cara Dune, whom he could only see from the shoulders up, tilted her head slightly, no doubt regarding his image carefully, looking for any clues as to what this favor could be. She appeared satisfied with what she saw after a moment and donned an easy smirk.

“Shoot.”

Din cleared his throat.

“I need to know if there are any bounties out for…someone I know.”

“Mhm. Kind of vague.”

Dune looked down at her lap and seemed to fiddle with something there before looking back up. Behind her, a door hissed shut, presumably leaving her as the room’s sole occupant. He trusted that she had enough sense to be discreet with this conversation.

Din paused to consider his words, and the ex shock-trooper, one eyebrow raised, waited patiently, a frozen column of blue light on his console.

“Ever heard of a species called the Chiss?”

Dune looked down, considering the question, and then shook her head.

“Nope. Sorry. What’s this all about? You still have the baby, right? That his species or something?”

Din sighed and resisted the urge to let out an admittedly feral growl of frustration. She was asking legitimate questions, he knew, but the more unreasonable and much more sleep-deprived side of him just wanted to protest how difficult even the simplest of tasks was turning out to be.

“The kid’s safe. I just need some information. Can you comb the systems for any Chiss bounties? Please?”

Dune gave him a look that made him avert his eyes, glance into the sliding blackness outside the _Crest’s_ windows. She completely sidestepped his question—as he had hers—and asked more of her own.

“Now I _know_ something’s up—I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ When’s the last time you’ve slept, anyway?’”

Din let himself slump deeper into his seat, bowing his head to collect his thoughts and force himself to say nothing that would tip her off as to what the answer to that might have been. Which did nothing to dispel curiosity. If anything, it only made it worse. And she was smirking again when he looked back up.

“Cara—"

Her first name slipped out easily. Too easily after the effort he had been making to keep things short, quipped, efficient. Impersonal.

“You ask me for a favor, I get something in return. And I’m not asking for much. Just tell me what’s going on and I can help.”

“You’ve helped more than enough. She’s my problem. Not yours.”

Cara shook her head.

“ _She’s_ your problem?” Cara frowned, the skepticism evident in her face, dripping from her voice. Din cursed inwardly at having slipped up in making it sound personal but didn’t respond out loud.

Cara waved a hand after a moment, discarding her previous statement and returning to the matter at large.

“Whatever. If that’s the case, Mando, then you should have called someone else.”

Din almost said, _but_ _I trust_ you, and yet it somehow seemed as if that would be too much right now, as if it might dampen something that shouldn’t be put out. Or that it would imply something he didn’t mean to imply and make this mess even bigger.

He folded his hands and leaned forward, closer to the Holo, back straight. Maybe she did deserve to know more. She made a valid point about expecting something in return for her continued services—at the end of the day, that was the crux of bounty hunting itself.

He caved at that thought. Just slightly.

“Fine,” he growled, though the roughest edge of his voice melted into the modulator natural rumble. “There’s a Chiss onboard—blue skin, pink eyes, small. She’s…she was looking for me. She gave me a job, but I need to know more. In case she’s a threat.”

Cara was quiet for a moment, and Din watched her eyes flicker back and forth as she thought, weighed things out in her mind. Finally, she shook her head. A faint crease appeared between her eyebrows, and she pinned Din with a gaze that somehow found his eyes immediately through his visor.

“You wouldn’t have taken her on board if you thought she really posed a threat to the Child,” she said slowly. The Holo shuddered and bobbed before coming to a rest, presumably as Cara moved to a different location to sit down. He hadn’t noticed that she’d been standing earlier.

“What’s really going on? She gave you a job, but she’s _traveling_ with you? I thought you were looking for info on the baby.”

“Still takes credits to fly the—”

“Cut the crap. We both know you wouldn’t risk a weird job like that now. Why would you—”

And then her eyes widened—not much, but enough for Din to notice and curse inwardly once more. Of course she would figure it out, or at least get close enough to the truth for discomfort; there were only so many possibilities here. She looked back up at him, the fierceness of her gaze accentuated rather than tempered by the hint of a grin on her lips.

“Wait a second. Small, you said. A ‘job,’” she jabbed the space around her with air quotes. “Sounding like _you’re_ the one owing something…how old is this Chiss?”

“Don’t.”

The grin broke through completely.

“She’s a kid, isn’t she? You picked up _another_ one. And you need my help finding out what to do with her, too.”

Din flinched at Cara’s realization and wanted to protest it as soon as the words came out of her mouth, but he found that he couldn’t lie to her—even if he could have gotten away with it. Instead, he remained still and silent.

Cara chuckled.

“You could have just flat-out asked for help, you know,” she said. “It’s not like we _really_ know each other or anything, but it would have saved us both some time.”

Din’s thoughts turned abruptly to how good it had felt to breathe the cool air in after having gone without it for so long, and all at once he wanted some more if it. Maybe it would have helped ease the headache that was Cara at the moment. For what had to be the hundredth time in a day, Din let a sigh escape through his helmet, half-hoping that it was loud enough on the Holo for her to hear.

Instead of reacting to anything she might have caught, however, Cara interpreted his silence as an affirmation of her theory and began working through the implications in her head.

“Deuce,” she swore after a brief pause, eyes still downcast, her voice rustling as it barely registered on the Holo’s audio receptors.

And then her eyes flashed up to his face, slightly narrowed.

“Mando. You know you can’t adopt every kriffin’ orphan in the galaxy, right?”

Din let out a long, slow breath. He really should have looked for a bounty on Lyrian somewhere else. He shifted in his seat, suddenly unable to look directly at Cara as he spoke, his voice about as soft as hers had been.

“I’m not. Just the ones I run across. And…I’m not ‘adopting’ her.”

Cara rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand in front of the Holo projector.

“Fine. How old is she again? Please say she’s not a fifty year-old baby, too.”

Mando shrugged.

“Old enough to be a pain.”

“That’s all kids,” she replied drily. “So, why do you think there might be a bounty out for her?”

Din shook his head and leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest. It felt a little better to be able to talk to her without trying to skirt around so much information, even if he still wasn’t going to surrender any specifics. He wasn’t entirely sure why she cared that much anyway.

“Just a hunch. Will you look?”

Cara was still for a second, and once again her gaze was trained on some point past the Holo’s range of view. He waited, his impatience growing, beginning to suspect that the intensity of her thinking was probably a red flag of some kind. When she finally replied, startling him out of his muted reverie, her three words were terse, each one a challenge, a jab to his armor.

“Come get me.”

Din stilled, stared, uncomprehending, at the earnest face before him.

“What?”

Cara leaned back in her own seat, arms spread out to either side of her, confidence written in the faint smile reaching towards either cheekbone. She offered him a light shrug.

“You heard me. Come get me. I’m going to help.”

Din almost sighed again before thinking better of it. Showing his frustration would likely only harden her resolve to get involved at this point. Which wasn’t going to happen.

“No. I have it under control.”

Cara let out a laugh, and despite the circumstances, Din couldn’t help but think that it was nice. It didn’t exactly fit her as a battle-hardened ex-shock trooper, and yet it was entirely Cara at the same time. A paradox. Din’s eyebrows knitted together under the helmet as she answered him, effectively demolishing wherever those thoughts had been heading to.

“Yeah, and I’m secretly a Gungan.” Din didn’t miss the accompanying eye-roll—the second one in the span of a few minutes. Which was probably another red flag he chose to ignore. She pushed forward.

“Where can you meet me? Obviously not Nevarro. Maybe somewhere closer to Hutt Space? Rinn?”

“Cara…” Din tried to warn, only to be interrupted as Cara tapped very loudly at something near the Holo’s audio ports, eyes flashing in a warning of her own. The message was clear: _shut up…I’m coming with you_.

“Right. Too far out. Let’s go local.”

She lapsed into deeper thought after that, and Din took the opportunity to brainstorm ways he could try to convince her that this wasn’t the way they were going to do things. Not that he _had_ to pick her up in the first place; he just didn’t want to see what she’d do if he said he wasn’t coming for her. And, admittedly, he hadn’t exactly seen any reason to practice his interpersonal skills over the years, so his experience in rejecting offers of help wasn’t exemplary by any stretch of imagination.

“This isn’t—”

Cara snapped her fingers and looked back out through the Holo.

“Let’s stick to somewhere warm. I’ve heard some stories about what can go on in some of those ice planets—" Din had to agree with her on that point, however much he wanted to resist consorting with the enemy. “I’m thinking Tythe is the way to go for now. In and out. Quick and quiet. Warm and toasty.”

Din shook his head. She could forget it; he wasn’t coming for her. He leaned slightly forward to add weight to the dismissal already on his tongue.

Cara knew what his movements meant, though, because now her companionable smile melted away. Her features hardened into an expression of solemn intensity—the same kind of expression she assumed during the heat of battle or during any potentially serious confrontation he had seen her in.

Not that he’d ever had too much time to notice in the past, of course. He just assumed this is about what she had looked like.

“Mando, I swear if you don’t come pick me up, I’m going to search the galaxy for you and your two kids anyway. You don’t want me to risk my life like that, do you?”

Din opened his mouth to reply, then closed it just as quickly, grateful for the obscurity his helmet lent him. He had a thousand things he’d like to say to her right now, and none of them were particularly flattering. Not to mention the fact that part of him actually _did_ want to meet up with her because he could use the help—and breaks—she’d be able to provide him.

It might also be a good contingency plan for the kid, if his previous close brush with death was any indication of how far south things could go in a short span of time.

Why was she so eager to throw her lot in with him anyway, considering all they’d already gone through together? Had he not done enough to show her he was better off alone, when no one had to worry about him and he didn’t have to worry about them?

Din’s fingers curled around the pommel of the vibroblade he kept tucked at one side. He hadn’t even realized he’d been fingering it until now.

This— _this_ was why he didn’t make friends. They always seemed to find a way to get tied up with him or his work, just as the opposite was true. It was, frankly, bad for business.

“Forget it—forget I called at all,” he finally said, voice quiet, nearly a mutter.

One of Cara’s eyebrows rose in response, and he could make out a flash of movement as her hand moved towards the Holo. He knew what that meant but didn’t have the reaction time to say anything before she spoke first.

“Nope. If you’re gonna get yourself killed because of that soft heart of yours, then I might as well prolong it as long as possible. Tythe. I’ll be waiting. Get her fast, yeah?”

And then the Holo clicked out.

Din sat there in silence for a few minutes before letting a single, short burst of breath and leaning back until his helmet touched the seat. He thought of how he had almost died back on Nevarro—how IG-11 had saved his life, how Cara had promised not to leave him, how he had been _afraid_ not that he would die, but that the Child would be left with no one but the Imps for company.

He had faced death head-on for almost as long as he could remember, and he had no qualms whatsoever about dying a premature death. If anything, he had made peace with that the moment he swore to the creed and _truly_ donned the Mandalorian helmet for the.

But all of… _this_? It felt new, even if it wasn’t.

Din Djarin sighed, stood just long enough to stretch and remember that he really needed to change the tunic beneath his Beskar because it was getting very uncomfortable—it was a welcome topic change in his thoughts. He dimmed the lights again and settled into the seat in a position that was as close as one could get to comfortable while wearing a full set of Beskar armor.

His eyelids were just slipping over his eyes when he heard it: the sound he’d only heard once but had never wished to hear again—for more reasons than one. The sound that meant something was very wrong and that had Din on his feet faster than he’d ever been before.

It was the sound of a baby crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again! I'm back from the dead again! Maybe!
> 
> Let's keep this *brief*, though, because I have something urgent to share with you and also I always make these too long. Whoops:
> 
> My Inspiration = crashing and burning as I type this  
> My Motivation = inconsistent and frankly scary when it comes  
> My Writing = Condemned by Me for Being Chronically Uncooperative  
> Help = WANTED.
> 
> Seriously, though. Like, I really really really want to become a better writer, and you wouldn't believe the level of dissatisfaction I'm experiencing with my writing as a whole right now. SO...if you have any tips, tricks, or criticisms to offer me in regards to my craft (especially in regards to characters and plot), PLEASE DO SHARE. I mean, if you want to call my writing trash, please feel free to do so--as long as you tell me WHY it's trash. I want to do these characters justice and I want to write All the Good Things in life, but I can't do it alone.
> 
> Mmhm.
> 
> As for this chapter: I hope you liked it! Admittedly, there's a fair amount of self-indulgence because I think friendship is cool, but this WAS necessary for moving things forward. Next chapter we should be getting off the stinking ship and onto a planet that is NOT ice-based because I've had enough of that. XD
> 
> Please let me know what you think and all that jazz and I'll see you later probably and be safe and healthy and stuff and OK I'm going now. Love y'all. :)
> 
> -Roanoke  
> (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)


	7. The Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyrian is most definitely a smol scared child. Mando is most definitely an intense closet dad. Cara is most definitely unsure of what she's actually gotten herself into.

Lyrian was being slowly sucked into the depths of space.

No matter how hard she tried pulling herself back into the wreckage of the ship, breath penned like a raging animal in her chest, fingers fracturing under the sheer force of her own grip, eyes wide and trained on the chaotic scene in front of her—she couldn’t make it back.

There was snow in the ship. It was pink with blood.

There was a discarded helmet in the snow, slick with the water and the blood. It was the Mandalorian’s.

The blade of light was there, too, humming. Kell and her parents stood beside it.

They were dying.

She gritted her teeth, squeezed her eyes shut, willed the last of her strength into her fingers. And then she lunged, one last time, desperate, screaming as she did so, skull splitting with the effort as something grabbed onto her leg and pulled pulled pulled—

The Chiss youngling woke still screaming, but her hands weren’t clinging to the jagged edges of the _Razor Crest’s_ side. They were held fast in two unfamiliar gloved hands.

She wasn’t being pulled out of the ship by the inexorable force of space and whatever creature had found her. She was lying in the same place she had fallen after the vision, and there was the little green baby, his face screwed up and wet with tears, his hands tiny little weights on her calf.

Lyrian sucked in a breath that burned her throat, and then another and another. She didn’t want to close her eyes because she knew she’d see another fragment of the vision—just as she had seen this one, fused with her nightmares. But she didn’t want to look up either, into the blank helmet of the Mandalorian whose hands were tight around hers, just painful enough to ground her in this reality.

Slowly, as if she were being raised from up from a pool of water, Lyrian’s other senses returned to her. The Mandalorian had been saying something, and for the first time since waking, she could understand what it was.

“Are you alright?”

His voice sounded oddly pinched. It sounded like he cared and not like he was annoyed. Lyrian let her the tension drain out of her arms, leaving them to sag, upheld only by the Mandalorian. She blinked once and only once.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” she said.

The Mandalorian didn’t say anything. The Child, still standing with his hands on her leg, made a somewhat strangled sound, as if there were still tears locked inside him, struggling to be free.

Lyrian blinked again and felt her hands being gently lowered to her lap, where she let them rest without comment or movement. Something deep within informed her that if she dared move them even an inch, the nerves would erupt with fire. She would feel again the way their bones had snapped in her nightmare—or was it the vision itself in which that happened?

A shudder ran through her. It was unbidden and unwanted. It was as shameful—as _repulsive—_ as the tears that still cooled her cheeks.

“He was crying,” the Mandalorian said quietly, and she turned her head as far as she dared to see him stoop down to take the Child into his arms. The little one made another strangled sound, though it was less intense this time, and tucked his entire face his savior’s armpit. The Mandalorian looked at her, and she kept her gaze locked firmly on the metal beneath his boots.

She focused on breathing because she didn’t trust anything else in her head at the moment.

“I think he knew what was happening,” the Mandalorian said. He stepped closer to Lyrian, and for the first time she became truly aware of what the ship and even the warrior himself smelled like: dust and blood. Dust because the air was thick, heavy, earthy. Blood because underneath the weight of the dust there was the distinctive edge of iron, copper, metals.

Once again, her body betrayed her, curling in on itself, trying to shove its way out of the path of the Mandalorian’s boots. Her spine collided with the metal of the alcove above her head after the first jerk, and her fingers closed around the toes of the shoes she had discarded earlier of their own accord. She didn’t look up—she didn’t even have to in order to correctly interpret the shift in the air around her.

Metal rasped, leather creaked, and the Mandalorian was crouching in front of her. He was a good distance away—far enough away that even if he reached out he would only barely brush her with his fingers. The Child nestled against him turned around at the descent and looked at her. His eyes still glistened with tears, but there was something else there, too.

Something Lyrian knew already.

“Lyrian.”

Dread was creeping up her throat again, and it flared at the sound of her name spoken in the Mandalorian’s voice. She could feel her traitorous heart begin again its desperate stuttering of fear—and then she locked eyes with the Child. It was in that moment that she realized that the grip on her leg—the one she had felt in her nightmare—had not been a grip to pull her to her death.

It had been a grip meant to save her.

“It was nothing,” Lyrian said, and this time her mouth betrayed her in the best way possible. Her voice had been even and detached. She had sounded like a true member of the Chiss species.

“You had a nightmare. The kid knew it. I think he was trying to help you.”

Lyrian’s eyes flashed up to his visor, and the second they broke contact with those of the Child, the panic bloomed afresh inside of her. It was so much more than a nightmare. She swallowed.

“I know,” she whispered.

The Mandalorian sat farther back on his heels, one hand still curled protectively over the robed Child perched on his knee. He didn’t know what to do or say, and Lyrian wanted to resent him for his conspicuous lack of tact, but when she blinked, she still caught glimpses of his helmet in the snow.

That hadn’t been a nightmare…that had been the future; it had been part of the vision she had seen before losing consciousness.

Could that future be changed? She didn’t know. Was the odd pair crouched in front of her going to die because of her actions and the vision that had prompted them? Had _she_ caused what once might have been only a distant possible outcome become an inevitable reality? She didn’t know that either.

She didn’t even know why the vision had been so much more vivid than any of the ones she had experienced before. This time, she had heard screaming and the sound of weapons being discharged, rapidly, desperately. There had been a baby crying, too, and she had _known_ —more certainly than anything before—that Kell was dead and it was her fault.

The tears spilled over her eyes in earnest before she could even think about it, and then she was sobbing. She was sobbing in front of the Mandalorian, drowning in her own tears, her own shame, the disgrace she was to her kind.

She didn’t see what happened next—everything had faded into the blur of warm tears—but she felt it. The Mandalorian moved away from her, and her first instinct was to call him back because she didn’t want to be down here alone. She didn’t want to have to close her eyes or fall unconscious once more only to wake in a world where the air was made of screams and the snow was stained with blood.

Her second instinct was strong enough to keep her from completely going through with that action, and despite the fact that she still felt as if she was drowning in these tears, she was grateful.

But, once again, the Mandalorian returned for her.

She felt two hands slip with certainty under her legs and her head, just as they had when he had first picked her up. She wanted to fight it because she didn’t know what he was going to do with her, but instead she let her head roll to the left, against his pauldron, which was cool against her burning cheeks. The sobs were significantly less violent than they had been even a few moments ago, but they were still there. They still choked any words she might have conceived of, washed over her mind in unceasing waves that coincided perfectly with the pounding pain in her skull.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the Mandalorian said, voice low.

Lyrian curled up tighter in his grip, even as he began to ease her into the alcove she had been crumpled against. She decided she hated that alcove almost as much as she hated the Mandalorian’s helmet.

She tried to help him out as he pulled his arms out from under her form and stepped back, giving her space she eagerly accepted. She had stopped issuing forth her animalistic sobs, and now she managed to scoot herself backwards until she was propped precariously against the wall, of the alcove, balancing on its edge.

She drew her knees up, not looking at the Mandalorian.

“Where is Pav?”

There was a rustle, a movement, and then the Mandalorian reached past her to the end of the alcove, where Lyrian made out the shape of the Child and her myrzat, huddled side by side, both looking as lost as she felt.

“Here,” the Mandalorian said.

He gingerly placed a hissing Pav in Lyrian’s lap and stepped back.

Lyrian felt the familiar, bristling mixture of fur and scales on Pav’s back and let out a sigh. She closed her eyes and exhaled a shuddering breath.

Any remnants of an impression she had left the Mandalorian after his initial departure had been utterly destroyed, and as much as the very thought of it made Lyrian’s stomach clench, she knew that here, in this moment, she couldn’t afford to dwell on what this looked like from his perspective.

He would never understand, and she didn’t intend to make it any easier for him to try. The visions were hers, and while the Child had somehow managed to connect to one, they were still hers alone. She didn’t know why this one had come so intensely or why it had melded so seamlessly with her nightmare, but she did know that if she was fighting to keep up both appearances and her sanity, she would lose at least one of them.

“Not all Chiss are like me,” she murmured, knowing that it must be said even if it deepened his distaste with her; it was not right that the whole of the Chiss name should be sullied by a single member. But the warrior did not reply to that; he cleared his throat. Lyrian opened her eyes but kept them on Pav, who was busy sniffing her hands as if she, too, could sense that somewhere, at some time, the fingers there were broken.

“One day, they’ll get better.”

Lyrian _did_ look up at that, and with some relief she found that he was not looking at her. His helmet was turned to the Child, who had waddled over to him and was wiping his eyes, either to clear the tears or as an extension of his sleepiness. Perhaps it was some mixture of both.

“What are you referring to?”

Her voice barely trembled this time.

“Nightmares. Memories, if that’s what caused yours.”

Lyrian frowned, the edge of her apprehension dulled by an older, deeper curiosity. He was speaking from experience—that much she could tell, but that wasn’t what was so intriguing about his words. What was most intriguing was how he was surrendering this information so freely and with so little expectation of any kind of reciprocation—to someone who had so blatantly proven her weaknesses to him.

In short, he was trying to _connect_ with her.

Some dim part of her knew she shouldn’t fall for or even entertain any such connection, but it was a very dim part, indeed. She ignored it for now. Reflecting on this was a much better option than reflecting upon what the future might hold.

“Why do you care?”

She didn’t say the words with any inherent venom or accusation—she asked the question flatly, expecting him to turn away from her immediately, seeing only that she had crossed a line he had not bothered to mark clearly enough for her to see yet. But instead he said:

“Because the kid cares.”

Lyrian looked at the green Child, who turned to her at almost the same moment. She swallowed again, stretched her legs out in front of her. She very slowly moved her hand and began to run a finger from the tip of Pav’s nose to the tip of her tail, an action which the little creature seemed to enjoy with no small amount of guilt.

She wasn’t sure if the Mandalorian’s reply was better or worse than what she had expected.

“Rest. Or if you’re looking for a distraction, you’re free to come to the cockpit.”

The Mandalorian stood up, but Lyrian kept her eyes on the Child in his grasp. The small green creature looked wise, old beyond his years, and while the Mandalorian and his recent personality shift did little if anything to ease the pandemonium of slippery emotions inside her, the Child was completely different.

He had reached inside her nightmare with his own power to pull her out, alerting the Mandalorian as to their predicament in the process—and even now he seemed to be offering her assistance, silently, ignorantly, innocently.

She didn’t want to let the Child leave her sight, so she said the only thing she could think of.

“I’ll come to the cockpit.”

Soundlessly, the Mandalorian nodded, retrieved what looked like an old cloak from the nearly bare shelves of the cabinet he said the Child had gotten to. Before he began his ascent to the cockpit, he handed it off to her.

She accepted it just as silently as he had offered it, and they spoke no more.

* * *

There was a storm gathering on Tythe.

The _Razor Crest_ touched down in a fury of coarse red dust, its landing gear slipping into the sand several inches before the ship came to a complete rest. Through the wide windows of the cockpit, Lyrian could make out a blistered horizon trembling in the heat, thick with stacked layers of monolithic clouds. They were streaked with all the colors of fire and blood: simmering orange, dusted gold, deep scarlet.

The Mandalorian had been right when he assumed that coming to the cockpit would distract Lyrian from what she had seen—there was something calming about watching the fathomless black of space whisper against the windows, broken occasionally by the dancing flecks of light that were planets, stars, civilizations.

When she had reached the point where she the lingering physical effects of her nightmare had retreated to wherever they had come from, she managed to ask the Mandalorian where they were going.

He had replied in an easy and steady voice—one that was conspicuously devoid of the judgment Lyrian had been expecting. It seemed he didn’t particularly care that she had completely lost her head in front of him and that he had been forced to clean up afterwards.

And then he had told her they were going there to meet someone he knew.

He handed her the statement casually, matter-of-factly, as if it didn’t revive her anxiety once more and inundate her brain with another one hundred ways this could turn out poorly for her _and_ , if her vision meant anything, the warrior and his tiny charge as well.

She spent the next hour in pensive silence, not bothering to try to push her luck farther with the Mandalorian, unsure of how she was to proceed in interacting with him now. As such, she was relieved when they finally landed and the ramp was put down for her to exit the stuffy ship.

She had to admit that the glaring heat and brooding humidity of the planet’s surface, however, was hardly better. The only thing that made up for it was the fact that they had landed near the most stunning lake she had ever seen.

Ringed by the mangled spires of long-dead trees, the lake was a pool of perfectly still red water. Lyrian stepped out of the ship and slipped her feet distastefully into the burning sand, allowing them to acclimate through the boots before taking off towards the edge of the lake.

She stood there, attempting to determine why it was so red and trying to ignore the thoughts in her head that muttered incessantly that the lake was full of blood. After a few minutes, she heard a now-familiar coo and the sound of someone approaching her from behind.

“Do you know why it’s red?”

Lyrian looked sharply at the Mandalorian beside her, who was struggling to contain an infant who obviously wanted to explore the sand and water for himself. Was he mocking her, perhaps? Trying to ‘connect’ with her yet again?

“It could be a species of algae or similar organism,” she said hesitantly, recalling the many hours she had spent with Kell in her parents’ ship. Kell had always been intensely interested in the sciences of life—any life—and he had clung to the hope that one day he would be free enough to indulge those interests to their fullest extent. “Or perhaps it is simply pollutants. Do you know the history of this place?”

The Mandalorian sighed and looked out across the water.

“Some. Apparently, it was full of life, once. A hotspot for trade and natural resources until a group came in and stripped the planet down to its core. It’s useless for anything more than a place to lie low for a few days now.”

Lyrian tried to imagine green plants growing where now there were only the husks of stunted trees. How fragile all of that life must have been to be so quickly and so completely destroyed.

She also thought of how much experience the Mandalorian might have had in finding people who simply wanted to ‘lie low.’ She thought of his unexpected comment after her breakdown and decided to test a working theory she had begun to develop on the way here: he had spoken freely to her in her worst moment of vulnerability. Perhaps that was the key to garnering information from him—exposing her weaknesses, even if it was entirely repulsive in every other sense.

“So, you are a bounty hunter. Correct?”

The Mandalorian hesitated.

“Yes.”

“If…why do you have the Child with you? Is he a bounty you are transporting somewhere?”

“He’s not a bounty. But he was.”

Lyrian crossed her arms over her chest and turned slightly away from the warrior at her side. Those two sentences could mean any one of many things, but by now she had seen the Mandalorian in action enough to know that there was likely only a few plausible explanations as to what they meant. She decided to go with the more pessimistic option in her head at the moment.

“Did you keep him because of his powers?”

And did he know of Lyrian’s own powers—to the extent that he would want to keep her as well for sale or slavery in the future?

“No.” Here the Mandalorian turned to her expectantly, and the way he held himself—tight, straight, restrained—told her he was struggling with something. And then he spoke again.

“I kept him because he was a child. And because he was alone, and I was the only one who could protect him.”

Lyrian swallowed and looked to her feet quickly on something akin to a reflex.

“The Way of the Mandalore,” he said quietly. “Is more than our helmets.”

Lyrian’s thoughts flashed to the abandoned helmet in her vision. What was he implying? That he was less a warrior than he was a savior? That his duty was less about fighting and conquering than protecting? That didn’t fit with even the scant amounts of history she could recall about Mandalore and the planet’s people before the Imperial Wars.

More surprising than that—and something that made her already-wounded pride throb—was the implication that he had come back for her, too, because she was a child. Because he saw her as defenseless.

Because he saw her as weak.

* * *

Lyrian cracked her eyes open to slits when a second ship touched down on Tythe’s surface.

After the strained silene that had settled between her and the Mandalorian, she had retreated to the _Crest_ and reclined against the ramp on the pretense of desiring to rest. In reality, she simply needed the time and space to sort her thoughts out and make meager restitution as a member of the Chiss species.

She had fallen far from the honor of her people in the span of only a few hours, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make up for that fact, at least in part. She needed more of a plan—a plan to restore herself in the sight of the Mandalorian, a plan to determine what her vision meant beyond its message of terror and death, and a plan to remain level and cool-headed if her composure should ever begin to slip so dramatically again.

She had managed to conceive of at least a few methods to accomplish the first plan she needed to formulate when the ship arrived.

The junky craft’s ramp lowered, and a moment later, a human female emerged with an enormous black bag slung over her shoulder. She carried an impressive array of weapons strapped around her waist—for an otherwise normal if not atypically well-muscled human, at least. The ship took off again as soon as she was entirely clear of the ramp.

Lyrian watched in curiosity as the Mandalorian strode forward to greet her. Dune, he had called her when he informed Lyrian of where they were going and why. Albeit, he had not told her _why_ they were meeting this acquaintance of his—despite her querying—which meant that the period of open conversation was now officially over between them.

Dune smiled at the Mandalorian, and he grasped her extended hand with his free one in greeting. The woman looked at the Child—who had started drooping in surrender to sleep a few minutes before—and said something, to which the Mandalorian apparently replied. Dune laughed, and then the both of them turned towards the _Crest_ and towards Lyrian.

Quickly, the Chiss shut her eyes.

Perhaps if she were able to feign sleep even better than the first time she tried, she could catch part of their discussion. Depending on why, exactly, the Mandalorian had wanted to find her, their conversation could yield some valuable information. Perhaps she could discern more about the Mandalorian’s motivations, though she had a growing suspicion that they were, admittedly, less insidious than she had first assumed.

She lay quietly as they approached. When they were, in her estimation, roughly fifteen feet from her, they stopped. Dune’s voice floated out of the darkness her self-induced blindness had produced.

“I looked into the info you asked for.”

There was silence for a few heartbeats before Dune continued. Lyrian assumed the Mandalorian had given her some sort of sign to go on.

“That the Chiss over there?”

Lyrian struggled against stiffening at the obvious mention of herself.

“Yes.”

“You sure she isn’t a Pantoran or something?”

There was a snort of amusement, presumably from the Mandalorian.

“Yes. And now would be the best time to tell me what you found, before she wakes up and hears for herself.”

Now Lyrian _really_ had to struggle to keep herself from stiffening. She rescinded her earlier thought about suspecting the Mandalorian was more benevolent towards her than first impressions suggested.

“Right. It isn’t exactly typical. But then again, nothing ever seems to be with you.”

“I take it she’s not clean, then.”

“No. There’s a bounty out for her—the employer isn’t offering any details except her description, her offense, and the location of delivery. As far as I can tell, there aren’t many hunters who’d be willing to take the job, though.”

“Why?”

“Various reasons,” Dune said drily. “For one, the reward amount is pitiful. Not to mention she’s of an obscure species—and they want her taken all the way out to Thule.”

Lyrian’s breath caught.

Her parents.

They were looking for her, and if they had bothered to spread her bounty halfway across the Outer Rim _already_ , they weren’t going to stop until she was found. Maybe they had even uncovered her plan. The Mandalorian wasn’t going to ignore this. He would take her back, and Lyrian knew that never again would she be able to get this close to freedom from her parents’ grasp. Unless—

“What’s her offense?” the Mandalorian said, his voice oddly clipped, similar in tone and inflection to the voice he had used as he had attempted to wake her from her nightmare.

Dune’s reply was quick and softer than her previous reply, but it was loud enough that Lyrian still caught it over the rumble of thunder that coursed through the veins of the bloody stormclouds above their heads.

“Treason. They say she’s a traitor, and she’s wanted dead or alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Ello!
> 
> Thanks for stopping by and reading! This was definitely a more inspired chapter than some I've written (thanks to some awesome people [you know who you are ;) and some less intense writing block than I've had in a bit. I mean, I feel kind of bad for all I'm putting (and will put mwahaha) Lyrian through so far, but it really is necessary for her arc and stuff. Plus, she's got MandoDad and Baby with her, so it'll all be good.
> 
> Also...THEY'RE ALL TOGETHER NOW YAY. This chapter, I think, is also going to be a kind of turning point for Lyrian and Mando's reactions. I hope you're all excited to see the mystery around Lyrian lifted some. ;)
> 
> Please let me know what you think of Lyrian's development here, particularly--there are several things I'm hoping you all pick up on and will want to clarify should the need arise. Next chapter is probably going to be at least partly from Gideon's or the Grysk's point of view, so stay tuned for that. And once again, thanks for your continued support. I love you guys. :)
> 
> Praying for you and yours always. Stay safe and healthy and know that you are loved and you DO matter in this world. ;D
> 
> -Roanoke  
> (Ephesians 4:26-31)


	8. The Assertion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tense conversation (what's new??), a few steps closer to the truth, and Cara being assertive. Basically. Like, literally. I swear it's building up to some juicy stuff.

“I am not a traitor.”

Din almost missed Lyrian’s voice, drifting softly through the growl of thunder. He was halfway up the ramp, Cara a few steps ahead of him—already in the interior of the _Crest_ —and the Child was fast asleep against his Beskar.

He paused and tilted his head down at her.

She was huddled in roughly the same position she had been not half a minute ago, but her eyes were wide and clear, no vestiges of sleep caught in her piercing gaze. She was so small, nestled against the ramp like she was. Truly a kid.

“You heard us then.”

It wasn’t a question, and both of them knew it. Lyrian didn’t say anything for a moment, and Din took advantage of the pause to look back at Cara, who had frozen on the spot and was looking back at him with a querying gaze.

_Stay or go?_

Din dipped his head ever so slightly in indication of the latter. She raised her eyebrows—flashing him a look that was rapidly becoming familiar—and then carried out his unspoken request. He waited until he heard her moving somewhere deep inside the vessel, and then he turned all of his attention back to the Chiss youngling below him.

“I am not a traitor,” she repeated.

Din found it hard to believe that she was lying about that. She had definitely seemed proud of her kind and her heritage, and while much of what she had done and said over the course of their brief relationship had been questionable at best, that had been one of the things she _had_ seemed entirely certain about.

But she _was_ hiding something.

“Who are they?”

Lyrian’s eyes flickered back and forth across the surface of his helmet, and Din found it somewhat difficult to maintain direct eye contact with her despite the fact that she couldn’t actually see his eyes.

“The ones searching for me are my parents.”

The Mandalorian shifted so that his weight rested on the left foot, relieving the pins and needles that had begun to creep into his right. He had guessed as much.

“If you’re not really a traitor, why do they claim you are?”

Lyrian straightened, glanced up at the Mandalorian, and then stood somewhat uncertainly, balancing ever so slightly the height difference that loomed between them.

“I am a Chiss,” she stated calmly, though there was something hovering in her eyes that belied that peace. “A daughter. A runaway… _ozyly-esehembo_.”

Din frowned at the way in which she had rolled that word around in her mouth before saying it. Her brow furrowed briefly, something—always something—fighting for dominance in her thoughts, and then it cleared. She met his eyes directly, something Din noticed had been happening a lot more than it used to these days.

“But I have never been a traitor and never will be.”

Din let out a sigh at her redundant addition. Once again, she was speaking like a diplomat, dancing around the question, filling his head with so many words that meant absolutely nothing. He was really beginning to dislike trying to hold a conversation with Lyrian. Despite needing to know what was going on with her and what kind of risks he would be running by taking her anywhere, trying to get information from her was like trying to win a blaster-fight with nothing but a vibroblade.

Din had found himself in such a situation before—he remembered it well. The fact was that the youngling before him didn’t know how to say anything that wasn’t steeped with mystery or drama or flat-out confusion; that made securing information truly about as painful as having his Beskar pounded by about fifteen blaster-shots at once.

Scratch that. He much preferred the blaster-shots—at least then he knew how to deal with them.

“What does it mean?” he finally asked, though he was regretting the words even as they left his mouth.

Lyrian looked at him, and he noted that she seemed even more dejected than _before_ she had repeated her claim for the third time; her posture was no longer tight and guarded. It was slumped, curling around herself. She looked at him as if she did not expect—and never _had_ expected—him to believe her. He wasn’t sure what to do with that either.

Her hands fluttered around the hem of her tunic for a moment before she visibly forced herself to be still and look at him steadily.

“It means sky-walker, and it is meant to be a secret. My parents do not wish any of the other Chiss to know of it for fear they will be ostracized.”

Din’s jaw tightened. He didn’t know what that meant, but it was a step closer to figuring Lyrian out than he had been. He glanced to his right, where the bank of stormclouds had evolved into a visibly boiling mass of bruised red and vivid blue-black. A shard of lightning zigzagged through the clouds’ heart, followed immediately by a sharp snap of thunder—the last warning before the storm truly began.

“And they would have you killed for this secret?”

Something new flashed across Lyrian’s face before she covered it up, and Din let his free fingers curl into a tense crescent. He couldn’t help but glance at the foundling— _his_ foundling—in his arm and think about how peaceful and content he was to be held by one so prone to violence and destruction.

“I mentioned Kell before, did I not?” Lyrian asked quietly. Without waiting for an answer, she pressed on. “He, too, was an _ozyly-esehembo._ He carried the same secret as I inside of him, for a time. My parents…they did not offer him the same mercies they showed to me.”

The Mandalorian’s fingers curled completely into a fist as Lyrian’s gaze slid away from him, and he knew she was lying. Something about what she had said was a lie, but, in keeping with the pattern of his life lately, he had no idea which part of it was the lie.

The first raindrops began to fall then, sizzling as they dropped to the ground, releasing minuscule wisps of steam immediately lost to the simmering air.

“They killed him?”

Lyrian’s nod was slow in coming, but it did come. She still did not meet his eyes, instead focusing beyond him, on the spectacle of stormclouds.

“You have abilities. Like him.”

Din gently lifted his arm to indicate the Child. His voice was tight, barely controlled, the rising pressure in his chest and the exhaustion in his body slowly getting the best of him. He could tell she noticed because she was drawing back again, her defenses slipping once more, a fear that ran deeper than her collected bravado seeping into her posture.

“Yes.”

Din felt a wave of heat wash over him, unrelated to that which lay outside. The raindrops swelled to the size of credits, oddly heavy, tinted red like the sands. He could feel them even beneath the armor, futile blows, striking again and again against armor they could never hope to beat. Steam had begun to create a wispy veil across their feet, and Din knew their conversation was drawing to a close. Lyrian knew it as well because she looked up abruptly.

Her words rushed out in a torrent, rivulets of polluted water running down her face, making her appear as if she were crying tears of blood.

“Don’t take me back to them. Please. I will—I can still get you the information you need, and if you desire…” she stopped, mouth open, eager to say the words her mind obviously wanted to protest.

“If you so desire, I will do your bidding until I have paid the debt your services require.”

Din stiffened at her words and the implication behind them, his earlier thoughts regarding her untrustworthiness and the fact that she had some strange power like the kid did fading into the background.

All at once, he was able to recognize with sickening clarity what she was—he was able to identify for the first time what it was that had made her seem so familiar to him, even when most of the time he had spent around her had been time spent in his own head, unsure of how to deal with her unpredictability.

She had been a slave.

He had seen many slaves during his time as a bounty hunter. Servants, aides, assistants—they were all the same thing, called by any other name to soothe the conscience of whatever lowlife happened to be looking for a runaway at the time.

As a rule, Din had tried to avoid going out for runaway slaves. They always cowered too much when he approached him, and the way they trembled so violently under his touch as he led them back to their masters had never bought him a very good night’s sleep afterwards.

But a bounty hunter was a bounty hunter, and sometimes, when there were no other good options, he _had_ gone after slaves. And they had all looked at Din with the same kind of fear in their eyes as he saw in Lyrian’s right now: it was the look of the hunted. Like a spooked animal, ready to bolt for cover, always looking for an escape she knew she would, ultimately, be unable to reach when all was said and done.

As thunder and his own blood roared in his ears, his exhaustion momentarily washed away with the grime on his Beskar, Din decided that she would be a slave no longer—and certainly she would be no slave of his.

He gestured shortly to the ramp, and his words were clipped as they leapt off his tongue.

“Get inside.”

The Child in his arms was only partially shielded from the rain by the lip of his helmet and the hunched posture he had adopted, and he didn’t want to risk waking him again. Not to mention the fact that he knew he couldn’t stand out here any longer, boiling in more ways than one in his own armor. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with these new revelations, much less what course of action he was to take.

He tried not to react to how she responded to his words and the sudden shift in his body language. Something inside of her seemed to crack, and he saw more clearly than ever—even through the rain and the steam and the red all around—just how similar she was in her vulnerability to the Child. He knew he should have said something more, told her he had no intention of taking her to her parents at the moment, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t trust himself not to make things worse.

He only watched silently as she gave him a wide berth, slipping into the _Razor Crest_ with water pooling from her hair, her clothing. She didn’t look back as she advanced into the darkness, and even when he followed, shutting the ramp behind them, she said nothing.

The sleeping Child stirred, uttered a single soft coo, and then was still.

The Mandalorian sighed.

* * *

“Sleep. Rest. Eat some food or something. I’ll fly this piece of junk.”

Cara waved a hand at the Mandalorian when he had mounted the ladder and she could sense him standing behind her, staring at where she lounged comfortably in the pilot’s seat. When she didn’t hear him moving, she turned around and raised her eyebrows at him.

He looked like he was about to kriffing fall asleep on his feet—and she could tell that even without seeing his likely very scruffy, very sleep-deprived face.

“Seriously, Mando,” she said. “Don’t fall over on the little one. All that armor would probably kill him.”

_That,_ of course, despite its jesting nature, got his attention. The Mandalorian straightened up.

“You know how to fly it?”

Cara glanced at the admittedly foreign controls—they were older than she was used to, but it wasn’t something she couldn’t handle. She’d figured her way out of far tighter situations before.

“I’ll learn quickly. And I’ll wake you up if we’re about to crash _or_ if Wrinkles needs, ah, help with any unpleasant business.”

She smirked and was satisfied to hear Mando snort at her spur-of-the-moment nickname for the Child. He slowly made his way to the smaller chair off to the side and behind hers and sat down heavily in it.

“Wrinkles? That’s the best you could think of?” he said, though there was little energy in his gruff voice. Cara watched fondly as the youngling in question stirred in his sleep and snuggled deeper into his robes.

“So, what’s the deal with the other kid you got in here now? You’re taking her back, right?”

The Mandalorian’s helmet didn’t move, and he showed no indication that he’d heard her. She almost began to believe he’d fallen asleep when he answered, his voice low and quiet.

“She’s alone.”

“Doesn’t sound like it to me.”

“She was a slave. Before she found me.”

Cara leaned back and crossed her arms. Before _she_ found _him_. That was interesting.

“You know that there’s no way you’re going to be able to care for two kids and avoid the Imps—plus whoever else might be looking for her, don’t you?”

“Lyrian,” he responded tiredly.

“Right. Lyrian. And what about him, huh?” She gestured at the Child. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing with him yet?”

Cara didn’t want to further tire the Mandalorian sitting before her, but he needed to hear this because—if her estimation of his character was anywhere close to being accurate—he was probably just trying to rationalize what he _wanted_ to do rather than decide what he _needed_ to do. If he decided to take on Lyrian as his responsibility, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated for all of them.

“No, I don’t. I’ll…discuss it in a little while. Just…give me a moment.”

Cara searched his blank helmet—noting for the first time the exquisite craftmanship of the thing—and then sighed in resignation. He just sounded too tired, too raw, too much unlike the Mandalorian she had gone into battle with not long before. He needed sleep, and soon.

“Fine. But I’m not going to give it up, and you shouldn’t either.”

There was a long stretch of silence, during which she turned back around, before he spoke again.

“Thanks, Dune.”

Cara half-turned, looking at the armored man slumped behind her. Any regrets she might have been having about coming to help him dissipated instantly. He just looked far too domestic, even in his armor, poised for a sleep with an already-snoozing infant on his lap.

They didn’t say anything after that, and it was less than a minute before she could hear him snoring, even through the helmet, and she made a note to inform him of just how much he sounded like he was snoring into a tin can when he woke up.

Which hopefully wouldn’t be for a while.

The fact was that Cara was worried about him. He didn’t seem to be the kind of person who particularly cared if he lived or died on most days, and while normally she would sympathize one-hundred percent with that, he had more than himself to look after now. And she still couldn’t stop thinking about how they had both believed he would die on Nevarro, and she could honestly admit to feeling scared during those moments. Not only that, but she had left him behind _in spite of_ that fear, never-mind that the droid had been there, _and_ Mando had actually been pleading with her to leave.

She just understood far too well what being left behind felt like.

Granted, that had been her job, in a way…to be left behind to do the jobs that had to be done. And she didn’t entirely understand _why_ she cared so much about this mysterious warrior who had shown up during her period of drifting and, in doing so, filled it once more with the adrenaline rushes and violence that had been her lot ever since she had been a young girl.

She only knew, looking back at him, cradling an infant that was as good as his own and snoring like he wasn’t one of the most dangerous people she had ever known in her life, that she did care about what happened to him.

Which was why there was no chance in Malachor she was going to let himself get killed trying to care for yet another kid. It would only guarantee the four of them a tragic, painful death at the hand of strangers.

She didn’t know this Chiss or what she was running from, but she knew just from her brief exchange with Mando that he wasn’t going to let go of her without a struggle—if he decided to return her to her kind in the first place.

The man seemed to have a death-wish.

And a strange, distinctly un-warrior-like tendency to take care of small, defenseless children, which did not jive well with his aforementioned death wish, of course.

Cara shook her head and turned to the controls, scanning the console for familiar switches and levers. She knew of Thule, where the bounty for the Chiss girl had been issued from—it was close to the Hydian Way and, more importantly to Yavin and its moons.

Yavin 4 had been the site of the rebel base before it had to be moved to Hoth. It was a lush place, teeming with rich jungles and lush plains, and Cara had at least a few contacts from her days as a shocktrooper scattered throughout the planets in the general area.

She wasn’t sure if she’d be entirely welcome after what all had happened, of course, but with any luck, news hadn’t spread up there yet. And she hadn’t been entirely idle during her brief stint as Greek Karga’s enforcer either; she had done some digging for anything that might help Mando and his small charge and had actually come up with a few names, a few rumors, and a few places that just might be a springboard for _something_.

Cara struggled to program the proper coordinates into the _Crest_ , trying to remember the area well enough to get a mental map pieced together in her head. She knew Thule was a long way from Tythe, at least—practically halfway around the galaxy. It would take a few days. More if the _Crest_ wasn’t performing at its best or if they had to stop for any kind of supplies.

That was good.

The more distance they could put between the destruction and disruption Mando and the Child had caused, the better.

“North past Rinn,” Cara muttered, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “Farther west than Mon Calamari, not quite on the Perlemian Trade Route, and…”

She drummed her fingers on the console.

It had been a long time since she’d had to travel that way, and the fact that she’d never cared so much about where they were going as what they were going to do on those planets didn’t help her much.

But after a moment she remembered.

Ironically, and perhaps dangerously for as little as she knew of Mandalorian history, Thule wasn’t far at all from the planet Mandalore—the homeland of the Mandalorians.

She frowned.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a good idea after all—

But another glance at the sleeping Mandalorian, and the sound of soft boots against the rungs of the ladder leading to the cockpit, and Cara knew she had to do must be done.

Even if she was the only one willing to make the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm (barely) alive! I'm sorry--I was wrong when I said this would have Moff Gideon's POV. That'll be next chapter because I didn't want this one to be too long.
> 
> Sigh.
> 
> I'm gonna skip the wacky sleep-deprived stuff and just say that I hope you all enjoyed. Life's been busy and writing has been on the backburner for a bit, so please excuse the rough edges on this chapter...and the plot in general because I know it's been a slow ride. I'm really happy you guys have stuck with it this far, though, so thank you so much for your support--silent or otherwise. It's awesome. :)
> 
> WHAT TO EXPECT IN THE FUTURE: it'll probably be a while until the next full chapter (I might get that shorter Gideon one up sooner, though) because I want to try and update ORaS at some point. Um...expect more action and fighting scenes, however, in the coming chapters because I remembered that those are, like, half the show and they need to be included. XD Also, I'm getting to some exciting turning points, so stay tuned for that and please don't give up hope yet.
> 
> Again, thanks for the support and for waiting. Please let me know what you think. I'll be looking forward to it. God bless. :)
> 
> -Roanoke
> 
> (Galatians 5:1)


	9. Dar'manda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, really.

_**Mando'a translations at end of chapter.**_

* * *

Moff Gideon watched his grysk hunter stalk towards the lone Mandalorian.

She was certainly a fighter, he observed, leaning heavier against the railing that ringed the sandy pit below. The arena was dusty and lit only by the dull glow of some luminescent stones set into the shallow domed ceiling. There was only one entrance or exit, and, as she had no doubt ascertained already, it was the one currently sealed beneath the sand she stood on.

Gideon inhaled deeply and leaned deeper into the prop of his arms, carefully avoiding the invisible shock-barrier that separated the elevated platform he stood on from the arena. He looked closer at the Mandalorian.

Despite the injuries she had sustained during the raid on Nevarro’s Mandalorian covert and the poor treatment she had no doubt received during the time in between now and then, she had her feet squared confidently, her blaster gripped tight in one hand, her helmet trained directly on her attacker. No doubt her mind was spinning with ways to escape her unfortunate predicament.

Gideon let a wan smile steal across his face. She would find no options that he did not intend for her to find in this little controlled experiment of his.

“Make the first move, Mandalorian,” Gideon murmured after watching the grysk continue to creep forward, slowly—so very slowly. He forced himself to ignore the rising impatience in his chest. This grysk, Kuban-lan-dul, was a fool. He was no grysk of legend—he was an orphaned beast with no knowledge of his true potential or of the deadly and infamous race of which he was inescapably a part of. A failure. A shadow of what was once great, that pulsing lifeblood of legends.

The smile slipped from Gideon’s face and morphed into a snarl of disgust.

It seemed there was a rising amount of ignorance tramping throughout the galaxy these days, perpetuated by arrogant, oblivious rogues like Din Djarin or “the Client,” as the former Imperial official had so liked to be known as. No one, Gideon thought as his hands tightened painfully on the railing, understood how dangerous this chaos they craved really was.

Gideon was spared further anger by the sharp retort of blaster-fire. He refocused his eyes to the arena and was immediately pleased to see that the Mandalorian, apparently just as nauseated by the dramatic approach of her attacker as Gideon was, had let off a shot—and hit the grysk directly over the heart.

Apparently, she had not known that his reptile-like skin was virtually impervious to the standard blaster-shot, however, and with a guttural roar, Kuban-lan-dul shot forward, barreling toward her on all four legs.

Ignorance was, indeed, a grave mistake.

Gideon watched as the young Mandalorian dropped to one knee at the last possible second and procured a shiv, seemingly from thin air. She held it at a firm angle as the grysk collided with her, neatly dislodging her from her kneeled position and launching them both to the ground in a spray of sand. Gideon heard the grysk emit something between a growl and a yelp, and his frown deepened.

Weak.

Both of them were weak.

The grysk, of course, recovered faster than the Mandalorian did, and he swung his left arm towards his rising opponent’s face with bone-crushing force. He made contact, and the Mandalorian’s head snapped back and to the right. Gideon could not hear her cry out in pain, but he was certain she did—if she was still conscious enough to do so.

She wasn’t unconscious—though likely severely concussed—and before the grysk could overcome his arrogant bloodlust to begin his traditional volley of final blows, she had lifted the upper half of her body enough to fire her blaster again, once, twice, directly at the grysk’s face.

Gideon pulled his hands away from the rail and clasped them behind his back.

This was better, if more desperate.

Kuban-lan-dul roared in fury more than pain at the shots and, with his eyes presumably screwed shut, blindly launched himself at the Mandalorian again. She was more than prepared this time, however, and as he came within range she ducked under his massive arm—easily as large as her entire torso—and jabbed her shiv savagely into his chest, to the right of his armpit. She must have penetrated his hide, too, because the grysk recoiled immediately, and his roar rose in pitch.

Gideon scoffed at the display.

The beast was blinded before the blaster bolts to his eyes—blinded by a thirst for violence that left no room for logic or the necessary calculation of close combat. If he had been the one deigning to sully his hands with this Mandalorian’s blood, she would be dead several times over by now.

But the grysk—even if the Moff hardly considered Kuban-lan-dul a proper member of species—were physically superior if not mentally. The grysk’s minor injury only goaded him forward, an angry bull with a single victim.

Kuban-lan-dul had latched both fists around the Mandalorian’s wrists, where the vambrace Gideon himself had removed before placing her in the arena should have been, and wrenched her forward, toward him. Her blaster fell uselessly from her hand, and the shiv she had been wielding in the other one was little more than a toothpick in the face of the new attack.

Though he could have easily pulverized the bones in her arms with the secure grip he had, the grysk quickly decided to forego such a swift ending to his duel, and he wrenched the Mandalorian to the side viciously, tossing her form to the sand as if she weighed little more than a sack of grain.

As he began his slow advance toward her, pulling his own sleek blade from its sheath, Gideon watched as the Mandalorian put barely any effort into trying to push herself into even a sitting position.

She was through before she had ever begun this fight, Gideon thought with disgust. Apparently, the grysk and his weak Mandalorian “opponent” were equally matched in their status as failures in their membership of supposed warrior races.

Gideon raised an outstretched hand.

“Stop!”

He could tell Kuban-lan-dul had heard him by the briefest of hitches in his stride, but the crazed beast did not stop moving toward his fallen prey.

Gideon scowled and shouted louder, though he laced steel through his tone as well as volume.

“Stop, Kuban-lan-dul, or your life is as good as hers.”

This time, the grysk did stop, and if the Moff had been anything close to a timid man, he would have immediately dropped his gaze as Kuban-lan-dul locked his beady, deep-set eyes upon his employer. There was nothing but hatred and rage there, dark and boiling and unrestrained.

After a short showdown of gazes, the grysk finally sheathed his weapon and stepped away. Gideon turned and left the room, headed to the tunnels that would take him to the arena.

He was not finished with the Mandalorian so quickly.

This was only the beginning.

* * *

“I assume,” Gideon said icily. “That you know what this is?”

The female Mandalorian sat on her knees in front of him, hands and feet bound, shiv and blaster removed and in the possession of Kuban-lan-dul. Her helmet was angled toward the sand, but he knew she could tell by the cold illumination of the darksaber on the dusky sand in front of her what he held.

Gideon swung it experimentally in the air directly before her helmet, let it drag through the sand and fuse the grains of rock and dust into a perversion of glass. When he was certain she had seen it, he disengaged the blade and tucked it back onto his belt. The quick tilt of her helmet that indicated she had seen where he had stored the saber did not escape the Moff’s notice.

Gideon straightened and clasped his hands once more behind him. He looked at the dented Beskar helmet—grimed and obviously quite old. He noted the streaks of blood in the sand beneath her knees, the way she trembled as she unwillingly kneeled before the one who had spared her life—from the dishonor of a death at the hands of a mere brute, at least.

“Tell me, Mandalorian…what do your people call you?”

The Mandalorian did not answer him right away, but Gideon saw how her fist curled tightly into itself. After a pause that had begun to sour on the Moff already, she looked up sharply, T-visor impenetrable as she spoke.

“ _Mando’ad_.”

Gideon raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and peered directly into the place he inferred her eyes might be.

“Come now. Surely you are more than the sum of your creed. What is your _name_?”

Her response came much quicker this time.

“ _Ni vaabir not dinuir o'r at aruetiise guuror gar. Slanar at dar’yaim_ ,” she hissed.

Gideon scoffed and leaned down so that he was at eye-level with her. He kept his voice even and low as he responded.

“ _Vaabir not mirdir gar joha arane gar oyay. Ni cuy' nayc besom._ ”

He was pleased to see her react to his words, recoiling as if on instinct, the rage that bubbled up inside her practically visible despite the Beskar.

“Now,” Gideon said after straightening up again. “I want to know—why did you stay behind when your Covert was raided?”

The Mandalorian stared down at the ground, silent once more. Gideon felt his impatience uncoil like a whip in his chest, sharp and fast.

“Very well,” he said, snapping around to look at Kuban-lan-dul, who was lounging some feet away, no doubt sulking. Gideon jerked his head towards the Mandalorian.

“The helmet. Remove it.”

The grysk, with raw anger simmering in his eyes, stepped forward obediently, and Gideon turned to the Mandalorian, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I have heard, of course, that your particular _breed_ of Mandalorians is quite…dedicated to your _peculiar_ sense of honor.”

He noted with satisfaction that, as Kuban-lan-dul approached, the Mandalorian’s chest began to rise and fall more rapidly, and she worked her hands futilely against the chains that bound them up until the very moment Kuban-lan-dul’s grasp wrapped around her head, obscuring her view of all but his skin.

Gideon held up a hand to pause Kuban-lan-dul, and then he stepped around so the Mandalorian could see him in her peripheral vision.

“You will not be the first nor the last Mandalorian whose helmet I remove, my dear. And if you wish for a warrior’s death following our interrogation, I would advise you to answer me honestly. It _would_ be unpleasant to continue your miserable life with no past, no creed, and no future, would it not?”

With those words and the final flash of a smile her way, Gideon nodded, and the grysk lifted the helmet off the Mandalorian’s head.

To his surprise—the first of this particular evening—he found that the girl underneath was just that. A _girl_. She couldn’t have that far out of adolescence, and while she appeared to be human at first glance, her dark hair and skin were in sharp contrast to the unnatural golden hue of her eyes. She was no warrior, though the pure hatred radiating from her gaze was, perhaps, more befitting of a warrior than anything she had displayed yet.

Gideon sighed and gestured for the grysk to retreat. Kuban-lan-dul did so, but not before letting out a low hiss in her direction and casting the prized helmet at her feet—the addition of insult to injury.

“I trust I have your attention now,” Gideon asked, ignoring the grysk’s temper tantrum.

The girl dropped her gaze to the sand and swayed slightly. The Moff could now see the patchwork of dark bruises blooming across her face, the creeping despondency in her posture, and he was reminded once more of just how effective this method was to break a Mandalorian’s spirit—to strip away all that they were and they strove to live by. She was nothing but a shell now. But perhaps he could garner what he needed from her yet.

“What do you want to know?”

Gideon smiled again, though he was not so foolish as to assume she would offer up anything she deemed important even now.

“Excellent. I will repeat my earlier question: why did you stay behind?”

She did not look up, merely spoke again in an accent that was strange and exotic to his ears, clear without the interference of her helmet’s modulator.

“For the Foundlings.”

“And how long has it been since you yourself were a Foundling?”

She _did_ look up at that, and the Moff was pleased to see that her spirit was not completely shattered yet.

“Long enough.”

Gideon regarded her, holding her gaze steadily.

“And what do you know of the bounty hunter Din Djarin?”

The girl’s eyes dropped too quickly for Gideon to believe she knew nothing of him. He reached forward despite his repulsion at such contact and forcibly lifted her face toward him.

“What do you know,” he repeated slowly. “Of the Mandalorian Din Djarin?”

She let the silence continue for another few seconds—seconds in which the Moff seriously debated snapping her thin neck then and there—before spitting out her reply.

“He is a coward. Reckless. He is a danger to our people and a disgrace to our Creed—he has soiled our name by working with men such as _you_.”

Gideon dropped her chin and laughed.

“Such a strong reaction from one so young and inexperienced. And such an ignorant one.”

Gideon smirked, stepping away from her and once more gesturing for Kuban-lan-dul to approach them.

“And such harsh words for one who was a member of the people you once knew as your own.”

He saw her flinch at that, and he decided this discussion was over for tonight. He would have plenty of time to study how she reacted to the loss of her creed in captivity—despite how new it was to her, she obviously held it in high regard. She would be a fascinating case study, a glimpse into the minds of the Mandalorians—particularly, it seemed, of those who knew nothing else in life. What he gleaned from her would be valuable in moving forward with his plans.

As he walked away from Kuban-lan-dul, whom he had instructed to imprison the girl, he heard her call out, her voice trembling, weak, broken.

“You will never be the Manda’lor,” she shouted. “The darksaber alone does not make you ruler, and even if it did, we—the Mandalorians would never follow a coward like you!”

Gideon stopped, turned around, let a smile spread across his face. She spoke like the immature child she was—perhaps it was beneficial that he had stripped her of the right to wear the armor and helmet she so obviously was not qualified to own.

“You mistake my intentions, young one. I do not intend to rule your pathetic remnant of short-sighted warriors. It would be a waste of time and energy. I intend to _remake_ them.”

With those final words, he turned on his heel and strode away.

He could feel the _dar’manda_ watching him as he left, and he hoped she would remember his words during her long stay in this planet’s dungeons—that she would consider their meaning until he returned to tie up the loose ends of which she was a part. It would make things…more interesting.

Gideon glanced at the sky as he exited the Imperial amphitheater, noting the position of the triad of moons.

He could not waste anymore time thinking of her at the moment, he surmised.

He had a meeting to attend.

* * *

**_Mando'a Translations (mostly from a site called lingojam, so please be forgiving XD)_ **

_Ni vaabir not dinuir o'r at aruetiise guuror gar. Slanar at dar'yaim_ : I do not surrender to outsiders like you. Go to ****.

_Vaabir not mirdir gar joha arane gar oyay. Ni cuy' nayc besom_ : Do not think your language guards your life. I am no uncultured fool (rough translations).

_Dar'manda:_ one who was but no longer is a Mandalorian and who has lost his creed, honor, and identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Long time, no see. I'll admit that this chapter is a bit rough (it's been a while, OK? ;) and, quite possibly, makes little sense given what's been happening in the last few chapters. However, I promise you that some things you've seen here-regarding Gideon and his plans and mental state and such-SHOULD make much more sense moving forward. Not to mention, there will be a chapter coming up at some point that details this little "meeting" he's having. Juicy plot stuff, right there...I hope. XD
> 
> Anyway, please tell me what you thought, thank you for reading, I'll try to be more timely with chapters in the future, and please stay safe and healthy out there!
> 
> -Roanoke
> 
> (Ephesians 6:12)


	10. The Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din finally gets some good sleep, thank goodness, and can now think like a *normal* human being. Guilt is splattered everywhere. Oh, and two children are being cute. :)

Din slept a dreamless sleep, and he when he finally woke, he woke softly.

He honestly couldn’t remember the last time that had happened, and he relished the feeling as he remained still in his seat. Granted, he was a little stiff from the awkward position he had locked himself into for the however-many hours he had slept, but it was nothing a little stretching or fighting might cure.

His pulse did spike a little when he realized the kid wasn’t on his lap anymore, but a glance at Cara in the pilot’s seat quickly reminded him that she wouldn’t have let anything happen to the him.

Din relaxed again and cleared his throat.

“How long was I out?”

Cara unfolded her hands, which had been propping her chin up as she had gazed into the intermittent darkness of space, and turned to his voice. She offered him an easy smirk, though there was a tension behind it Din couldn’t quite place.

“Good morning to you, too, buckethead.”

Din grinned and stood slowly, giving his back time to pop, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness of sleep.

“We’re approximately twelve hours in, give or take a few,” Cara said after she checked the console. She eyed him again. “That’s long enough to give anyone a bedhead…or are you actually bald under there?”

Din laughed before he even had time to fully process his reaction, and he didn’t miss the pleasantly surprised expression that crossed Cara’s face when she heard the sound. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel, so he forged on.

“Not quite. Where’s the kid?”

Again, something unreadable crossed Cara’s face, effectively erasing any positive emotion he might have seen there before. She dipped her head toward the ladder at one end of the cockpit.

“With—” Cara hesitated. “Lyrian. I told her she could use your bunkspace to play with the little one.”

Now it was Din’s turn to be somewhat surprised.

“She came up and…talked to you?”

Cara’s strained smirk returned.

“Yeah.”

Din waited, but Cara didn’t seem too keen on offering any further information.

“And what did you discuss?” he prompted.

Cara turned back to the console rested her hands on its edge with an uncertainty that was disturbingly uncharacteristic of her. Her voice was quiet.

“Not very much.”

If that wasn’t the most blatant lie Din had ever seen, then he was a kriffing Gamorrean. He might have called the woman out on it, too, if she hadn’t have spoken first.

“We’re close to Thule, Mando. We just passed Gand.”

Din felt like ice had been dumped down the back of his neck. That’s why Cara was acting so strangely when it came to Lyrian—the ex-shocktrooper was flying them to Lyrian’s parents. To the people who didn’t care if their daughter lived or died—who maybe even _wanted_ her dead. And Cara had known that Din would have been _hesitant_ , at the very least, to do that without thinking or discussing it further. Maybe she was even having doubts about the course of action herself. Had that not been the very feeling she had expressed to him before he passed out?

He could sense that Cara was watching him closely, and while a part of him felt a familiar heat mixed in with the sudden heaviness that had settled over his thoughts, the more logical side of him knew she was only doing what she thought best for him and the child. What would keep them safe, free of the risks Lyrian presented.

He forced himself to move forward and lean down next to her, willed his fingers to manipulate the ship controls there until a holomap sprouted from its respective pad. He worked and thought in silence for a few moments, Cara still and silent so close beside him, and then he pulled away.

“Okay. We’ll stop on Toong’l first to refuel. We’re low on supplies for the child, too.”

What he didn’t say, of course, was that stopping there would buy him some time to think. Cara nodded when he finished speaking, and Din pulled out of such close proximity to her, a warm feeling creeping over his face even as he tried to fight it.

He really needed to stop spending so much time alone. If being around other, non-bounty adults like Cara was really making him lose himself this much—

“Di—Mando,” Cara said suddenly, and Din couldn’t help the hitch in his breath when she almost said his name. He knew she’d heard it from the Moff back on Nevarro, and there was no doubt that at least some part of her couldn’t resist associating it with him. But hearing such an intimate word from the lips of an enemy was much, much different than hearing it from the lips of a comrade. Of a friend, maybe.

And yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that she could call him by that name, even now.

It no longer represented who he was, not really.

It was the name of a child who had died on a planet very far from here.

Din swallowed and looked into Cara’s dark eyes. He focused on what she seemed to be struggling to put into words.

“I—I found something good in you and that little green baby down there,” she said hesitantly, eyes flickering away from his visor. “And I want to hang onto it as long as I can, even if it means making hard choices. I don’t want to risk losing it like…”

Cara’s lips parted, the words she wanted to say on the tip of her tongue. But the words never fully materialized, and she looked down again.

Din could tell she was bordering on shedding tears, and he felt his stomach twist. This wasn’t right. Cara shouldn’t have been taking this decision upon herself on his _or_ the child’s behalf. She shouldn’t have to sacrifice her pride to apologize for something that was his fault—he had gone back for Lyrian even though his gut instinct had been pulling him away, after all.

Lyrian was his responsibility, and that wasn’t on Cara in the least.

Now, Din fought another gut instinct—the one that told him to walk away now, before things got any messier—by reaching out and gently placing a hand on Cara’s arm. The woman stiffened and looked up at him, eyes liquid and damp.

“You made the call when I couldn’t do it myself. The kid is still my top priority, and I’m not going to lose him.”

That _was_ one thing he was certain about. He was effectively the kid’s _buir_ now. He didn’t take that lightly, even if he hadn’t—and probably never would—take the vow that would make him a _buir_ in officiality as well as effect.

Cara shook her head, glanced at her feet and then back up again, and then moved her hand unexpectedly to cover his own. Din could feel the warmth and strength of her grip—which despite its strength seemed more fragile now than it had ever seemed when he had arm-wrestled her—and it distracted him in a way so sharp that it almost _hurt._ He pulled his hand out from under hers, yielding to the instinct before he could think any harder about it, disrupting the words Cara had been about to say.

Something that seemed almost sad flashed across her expression at the action, but she regained her composure quickly and sucked in a deep breath.

“I know. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just that…she’s still a kid, isn’t she? And while I don’t want you or the child hurt, I don’t want Lyrian to suffer either.”

Grateful that whatever had just happened was over, Din blew out a breath of his own and nodded. She had perfectly summarized how he thought about the situation, and now—after he had a bite to eat and something to drink, perhaps—was the time to figure out what came next. It helped in morale, at least, that he wasn’t so sleep deprived he could barely stand.

And deep inside of him, in places he seldom dared to venture, he understood that there way no way he would be able to do it when the time came. He would not be able to return Lyrian to her parents—to the object of the fear that gripped her with such dramatic intensity.

He had gone through this gauntlet before when he had delivered the kids to the Imps.

And he wasn’t going to allow anyone but himself to ever pay such a high cost for his mistakes again.

“Set the course for Toong’l. I’m going to check on the kid,” Din said finally, turning toward the ladder.

He could hear Cara shift behind him and move to program the coordinates into the _Crest_ , but she didn’t say another word. He wasn’t sure if he had wanted her to or not.

* * *

The Mandalorian froze as soon as his feet touched the ground and he turned around.

Cara hadn’t been kidding when she said she had given Lyrian permission to his bunkspace as an area to play. He could see her sitting inside, back turned towards him. She had every blanket, cloak, and cloth Din hadn’t known he possessed strewn around her and the kid, who was hidden just outside of Din’s vision by the wall of the bunk’s entrance. Scattered throughout those, he could see choice pieces of the junk he had dumped in the floor not long before.

But that wasn’t what made him pause.

What made him pause was Lyrian’s voice, lifted in a high, lilting tone that was more childlike than he had ever heard it before. She was, it seemed, telling the child a story.

“—and then, _tisan_ , something materialized from the gloom…”

Lyrian leaned forward here with her fist held into the air, a portion of Din’s old, deactivated vambrace wrapped around her small wrist.

“It was,” Lyrian paused dramatically, wide-eyed gaze trained on the kid—who was no doubt enraptured—sitting in front of her.

“A warrior!” she burst out, and Din heard the child squeal in pained excitement, which promptly dissolved into a round of giggles unlike any Din had ever been able to elicit. The kid sounded so _happy_.

It made Din feel weird. Again.

“The warrior rushed in and picked up the infant,” Lyrian continued, a giggle of her own creeping into the narrative. “Sweeping the slavemasters off their feet with a single blow. And then he flew away, baby in one arm. Do you know what infant he rescued that day, _tisan_?”

Din found that he was holding his breath, as if he, too were captivated by the story—which sounded like it featured suspiciously familiar characters—the Chiss youngling was crafting.

The child cooed something to fill the quiet space Lyrian created with her pause, and she giggled again, sounding so much like a child no older in mind than the kid she entertained.

“You!”

Lyrian leaned forward as she shouted the single word, and Din assumed she was tickling the child because suddenly the green baby was laughing again, squeaky, unsteady noises that brought an irrepressible grin to Din’s face. Lyrian, he realized, was laughing, too, her breath coming in uneven gasps between giggles, hindering the unintelligible words she tried to form every now and then.

He stood there, hearing without truly listening as Lyrian spoke some more, strange feelings washing over him, memories rising from the back of his mind.

Lyrian and the baby’s interaction sounded like the ones that used to take place in the Covert, when he was still a child and there were more foundlings than there were helmets to go around. The foundlings used to tell stories all the time, fighting sleep or simply defying their elders because they wanted to stay up long into the night—because they wanted to feel as free and powerful as the Mandalorians who relayed tales of glory and honor before they retired each night.

There had been nights when Din had laughed like that himself—both before, he remembered, and after the Mandalorians had taken him in.

Once, he had invented stories about his own _buir_ to tell across the flickering crown of the fire, to the foundlings who were younger than him and whose faces would be streaked with tear-tracks more often than they were alight with the innocence of youth. Just like Lyrian—

A metallic _clang_ erupted without warning from in front of him, and Din ripped away from his thoughts in a flash.

The metal ball that tipped the control-stick in the cockpit had been flung—no doubt in the throes of the child’s excitement—out of the bunkspace and had hit the adjacent wall. Din wasn’t even sure when the kid had managed to get the thing, unless Cara had surrendered it to him. Another grin ghosted across Din’s face, but it dissipated almost immediately at Lyrian’s next words.

“ _Tisan!_ I told you—we have to be quiet for your…your Mandalorian. Here, stay still. I’ll retrieve it.”

Din didn’t even have time to pretend he hadn’t been standing there listening with one arm leaned comfortably against the wall when Lyrian turned, hopped out from the bunkspace, and landed gracefully bare-footed upon the metal.

Now, it was her turn to freeze at the sight of _him_.

Din knew what the feeling that uncoiled inside of him then was—the feeling that was tight and sharp at the sight of her suddenly defensive posture, the way her bare toe suddenly became infinitely more interesting than meeting his gaze. It was guilt.

“I apologize, Mandalorian,” she said quietly. “I did not mean to wake you or invade your privacy. I was playing with the baby, and your companion said I could use this space. Forgive me if I have not pleased you…”

Din’s hands curled into fists, heat flushing across his skin. If there had been a way to show her that he was not angry at her, a way to strip his Beskar of the fear it caused, to ease the intimidation from his posture in her eyes—there would have been very few things Din would not have done to do so. But as it were, he had no idea what to say, how he could make her see that she was not his slave and never would be remotely close to being his slave.

So, he didn’t try to think on what he could never hope to find the words for.

Instead, he hardened his resolve to formulate a plan for keeping her alive and free, to get her to the better part of her family in Csilla, as she had told him she was looking for. But he did know of one thing he wanted to know first, before he left her to herself once more.

“What were you calling the kid just now?”

Lyrian looked surprised at his complete bypassing of her earlier statements, and her eyebrows dipped down as she glanced at the kid and then back to him. She seemed almost shy as she replied.

“ _Tisan_ , short for the Cheunh word _en’tisan’sasi’at._ ”

Din had absolutely no clue how she wrapped her tongue around that last word. He might have expressed as much if it hadn’t been before Lyrian added, hastily, “But it’s not a name. I wouldn’t name him since you haven’t yet. It just means ‘baby.’”

Again, Din felt himself tighten at her apologetic tone and borderline groveling humility. He felt sick—and he needed some food.

“I see. You can continue playing with—with the _tisan_ on the bunk. We will be stopping for supplies and fuel soon. Make sure you’re ready.”

Din wasn’t sure how to interpret the light that kindled in Lyrian’s eyes when he used her Cheunh word, but he tried not to dwell on it too much as he pushed down the hot, uncomfortable pressure swelling inside of him and moved toward the entrance to the ‘fresher.

“Thank you, Mandalorian,” he heard her say behind him, in a small but open voice.

Din didn’t trust himself to respond, and he knew that she honestly had nothing to thank him for yet.

But perhaps she would soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya!
> 
> Another chapter for you, m'dears. I will admit that this was fun to write. Din's head is a little clearer--hence the deeper reflections and awareness of EmOtIoNs and his resolve--and Cara got in a bit o' fun character development. And also: kids. Having fun. Mostly. I hope you enjoyed the new update, and I would love to hear what you thought of things!
> 
> Also, the Cara/Din thing just kind of happened. Oops. We'll see if it goes anywhere. O_O
> 
> The next couple of chapters are leading up to the climax of this fic (and I have some important things to tell you about how I've decided to structure this thing moving forward...but later), so expect lots of action and a Raising of the Stakes. Things are about to get heated up in here! >:D
> 
> I hope you're all doing well, as usual. Stay safe, healthy, and well out there, please. There's only one you. :)
> 
> ~Roanoke  
> (Psalm 146:9)


	11. Friction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author took a lot of liberties with the planet Toong'L, and we get a little update on our favorite Chiss child. :D

The _Razor Crest_ lurched to an abrupt stop upon the surface of whatever planet the Mandalorian had decided to refuel on.

Lyrian stopped midway through a sentence that had obviously failed to wholly capture the interest of both herself and the Child, who had long ago become more interested in trying to pull a hissing Pav's tail than listening to Lyrian. She glanced out of the rectangular entrance of the Mandalorian's bunskpace and wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment that released the tension in her belly when she saw no hint of silver or black to indicate his presence outside. He had left the 'fresher and returned to the cockpit, it seemed, since she had resumed her storytelling.

She could admit now—after all that had happened over the course of the past day-and-a-half—that she was utterly confused. Confused, uncertain—neither states of mind were pleasing or even very familiar to her, but Lyrian had decided that admitting such a weakness might serve her better than pretending she _wasn't_ confused at this point in her quest. What she didn't understand at the moment could be understood given time and an element of risk. What she _thought_ she understood but did not, however, would only lead to a desperate scrabbling for control she had no way of possessing.

Her priority now was not determining where she or the Mandalorian stood in relation to one another anyway. It was formulating a plan of escape because all signs pointed to her being returned to the custody of her parents—and she knew with certainty that she would rather die then submit to their control again. Freedom, even if it was short-lived, was infinitely better than slavery. Kell's life and later "release from servitude" had proven that.

So, Lyrian told herself she was merely confused about whether or not to trust the Mandalorian as she slid out of his bunkspace and pulled on her shoes. She wasn't afraid, even though she guessed fear might benefit her more than confusion, and if she did not explore her own thoughts and weaseling emotions too much, she could also say that she was not slightly sad to leave the Child behind. She turned around once she had finished adjusting her shoes.

"Come, _tisan_. We can stretch our legs now."

The Child looked up from Pav, whom he had cornered and had been slowly advancing upon.

"Bah?" he inquired, the end of his monosyllable curving up in a way that could only be described as hopeful.

Lyrian grinned at him, an action that was become increasingly more frequent as she spent more time with the little green infant, and then reached her hands out to pull him away from her cranky pet.

"Yes," she said as he settled comfortably into the nook of her arm. "And you can see the Mandalorian as well."

Lyrian turned around just in time to see Cara jump down from the cockpit ladder. Whatever remnants of her grin that might have remained dissolved immediately as she recalled her earlier tense conversation with the woman.

"Mando said you're with me," Cara said, voice gruff.

Something cold and hard expanded in the pit of Lyrian's belly, and she found herself instinctively holding the Child closer to herself.

"W—are we not going to all be together?"

Cara, who had forwent looking at Lyrian while the girl spoke in favor of intently scanning the wall in front of her, stepped forward instead of answering immediately. She pressed a button on the wall and was rewarded with a hydraulic hiss as the entire panel slid away to reveal a fully-stocked cabinet of weapons. She hummed in satisfaction and looked at Lyrian.

"No."

Lyrian frowned at the ex-militant. She considered letting the matter go at that—her past experience with contesting any course of action adults had already planned informing her that punishment rather than understanding was more likely to follow such questioning—but then she decided she had nothing to lose. She knew they were traveling in the general direction of Thule. For all she knew, this could _be_ Thule. The worst Cara or the Mandalorian could do would be to continue on to her self-proclaimed home planet, where they would fulfill the bounty her parents had put out for her—albeit, in a more ruthless manner than the one in which the two friends were currently pursuing it.

So, she used the word she had learned early on in life to avoid at nearly every cost:

"Why?"

Cara pulled something like a forked rifle out of the cabinet, inspected it, and then replaced it wordlessly.

"Because," the woman said slowly, still not looking at Lyrian. "That's what Mando wanted. And it's his life, his ship—he makes the plans right now."

Lyrian immediately sensed that there was more to Cara's weighted words, but she had received some semblance of an answer despite the disrespect she had shown, and that fact alone had given her a warm, pleasant rush. She wasn't going to tempt fate now. She knew that Cara was loyal to a fault to the Mandalorian—she had made that much clear in their conversation earlier—and their relationship was far outside her jurisdiction of concern. But knowing that there might have been some conflict ruminating between them could prove useful in her escape attempt should she receive the chance to make one.

Lyrian occupied herself for the next few minutes by bobbing up and down with the Child, murmuring snatches of Cheunh proverbs into the sweep of his large ears as she thought about what he course of action logically needed to look like. She had almost run out of rhyming recitations to offer the Child—scant as they were in her memory—when the Mandalorian emerged from above.

He clanged his way down the ladder and accepted the rifle Cara handed him from the weapons cabinet before turning toward Lyrian.

The girl thought of what he had witnessed earlier, when she had been playing with the Child, and she felt fingers of warmth brush across her cheeks once more. Lyrian had let her guard down and forgotten to listen for the Mandalorian's arrival—she had been acting as immature as the Child she had been seeking to entertain, and now her status as nothing but a youngling was no doubt cemented in the Mandalorian's head.

Her reputation—and the honor of her people—was likely to be forever sullied in his mind, and it was entirely her fault.

Not that it mattered now, she supposed, since he was delivering her to her parents and didn't seem to care one way or another what the Chiss species were like. And, she thought suddenly, even though the Mandalorian had seemed to care about her wellbeing earlier—when she had experienced the nightmare-vision—his façade of concern could just as easily be the result of some subconscious guilt over his plans to turn a _child_ over to her death as it could be an actual display of affection.

Lyrian's eyebrows quirked down.

No, it was far more likely that it was a result of guilt, she reasoned. She hadn't thought of the Mandalorian's motivations in quite that way before, but it was entirely plausible that even a hardened bounty hunter would take some issue with deadly deals involving children. While the Chiss would never let their emotions interfere with whatever vocation they pursued, many other species might, and there was a possibility she could press that to her advantage in this case.

"Cara, you will take the Child. I'll refuel the ship and locate the contact," the Mandalorian said suddenly. Lyrian looked at him from the corner of her eyes even as she kept her head turned down to the Child, who had taken to chewing on her sleeve in a kind of glazed-eye daze.

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Cara said, smirking even through the steel in her voice. "Pose as tourists?"

The Mandalorian shook his head, seemingly unfazed by his friend's blatantly confrontational tone.

"Find some food. Get the kid something to play with, if you can."

Now, the Mandalorian cocked his head in Lyrian's direction, not waiting for Cara's reply to the rather domestic task he had assigned her.

"If you need to buy anything, you're free to do so," the Mandalorian said.

Lyrian felt a jolt in her chest.

"What?"

At the Mandalorian's side, Cara snorted.

"He means he'll buy you something to replace what you lost—or to get a change of clothes," she said, and Lyrian unwittingly curled her hands into fists at the implication behind the woman's words. It was true that she needed at least another tunic—the one she had on was ripped, scored with soot and grease from her time in the icy mountaintop community, soiled with something from nearly every planet she had been on since she had escaped her parent's merchant ship, she would have guessed. But again, she was confused.

What purpose could buying her supplies possibly serve in the Mandalorian's thinking?

Could she trust the Mandalorian and his seeming concern for her wellbeing?

Or should she dismiss it in favor of the overwhelming body of experiences that taught her that very few people in the galaxy had any reason to care for her wellbeing outside of what she could do for them? Should she dismiss it in favor of the guilt-theory she had formulated regarding the Mandalorian no more than a few seconds ago?

The latter was more compelling to Lyrian in many ways.

"Thank you," she said quietly, quieting the rush of her thoughts and looking down at the small green Child in her arms. He had twisted around to look at her as well, and she knew as his large dark eyes peered into her own that he could sense the conflict coursing through her. She let a soft smile ghost across her lips and ran the tip of one finger across his ear in a silent gesture of comfort that rose, unbidden, from somewhere deep inside her.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat and stepped past her, and then the world was back up to normal speed. The rush that inevitably accompanied visiting new places swelled within Lyrian's chest as she turned to face the loading ramp and tamped everything else down. She did not try to convince herself that there was no anxiety mingled with the excitement, even though her first instinct was to do so. Once again, the thought that she had nothing to lose anymore surfaced in her head. She might as well enjoy the adventure that lay before her before she was no longer physically able to.

"Welcome to Toong'L," the Mandalorian said as the landing ramp fell to the ground with a solid _thud_.

But his words were almost swept completely when the fiercest gust of wind Lyrian had ever experienced tore throughout the _Razor Crest_ , slicing strands of Lyrian's hair into her own cheeks and the eliciting a concerned squeal from the infant in her lap as his ears whapped against Lyrian's chest. A pervasive roar accompanied the wind, vibrating at such an overwhelming frequency that Lyrian was honestly surprised she had not noticed its presence _before_ the landing ramp was lowered.

She wasn't sure she was going to enjoy visiting Toong'L in the least—its close proximity to Thule aside.

* * *

They were climbing into the sagging belly of a dark, jagged bowl.

Lyrian followed closely behind the Mandalorian—Cara behind her and the Child still clutched securely to her chest—as the warrior led the way, his rifle extended straight and ominous above his head, a reminder of the vast destruction of which he was capable.

The planet itself was like nothing she had ever seen.

The sky that yawned above was in a constant state of evolution, neon colors that swirled in gyrating vortexes across its surface ranging from a putrid shade of yellow-green to the deepest tone of royal purple Lyrian had ever seen. Banks of clouds would sometimes appear without warning, having somehow managed to avoid being swept into the ever-circling spouts of color, and then they would wink out of existence just as quickly.

More striking than that, however, was the fact that they were carried to and fro by broad strokes of wind so powerful they actually threatened to upset Lyrian's balance. They were the source of the roar she had become aware of when the _Razor Crest_ 's door had opened, and she fought them the entire time they trekked down the boulder-studded curve of the Greater Toong'L Crater—which was the name the Mandalorian had assigned to their destination.

That name, despite being spoken in the same gray tone the man used for everything he said, had earned him a not-so-subtle snort of amusement from Cara, which Lyrian had almost been inclined to share until she had actually seen the Crater.

It was a pronounced pit in the earth that, given the brief glimpse of its rim she had seen, spanned miles upon miles in diameter. It was deep, as well, though not far from them were a few clusters of buildings as dark as the soil they rested upon. In fact, they were only betrayed as intentional structures by the smears of wan light that marked windows and doors. Beyond the buildings, Lyrian could make nothing out of the gloom except more black earth.

Even the Crater's overwhelming size and depth or the steep, roughhewn stone steps that she now tried to navigate, however, were not what truly made Lyrian's heart flutter behind her sternum. What gave her pause before they began her descent and what made her stick close to the protection she knew the Mandalorian could provide if he or his companions were threatened was the sight of the _holes_ that unevenly marked the Crater's sloping sides.

"What are those holes?" Lyrian asked when they were halfway into the bowl.

It took her a few seconds after her unanswered question to realize that no sooner had she formed the words on her tongue than the wind had obliterated their sound. No one could hear her through the wind.

Lyrian repeated her question, raising her voice to a pitch that sounded like a disgraceful shriek in her own ears. The Child seemed to agree with her mental assessment, too, because she could feel him squirm in her grip.

She could tell the Mandalorian could hear her this time because he tilted his head to the side, though his sure footsteps never once faltered on the wind-scoured surface of the rocks. He reached up to his helmet—which Lyrian suddenly noticed was smeared with the multicolored reflections of the strange lights above his head—and tapped something near where she assumed his ear was.

"The holes are access points," he said, and Lyrian was slightly surprised to find that his voice, though more distorted than usual, was almost as loud as if the wind had not been there to interfere. "They lead to the underground network centered at the heart of the Crater."

Lyrian looked again at the holes. They were all different sizes and not arranged in any discernible pattern, but there was certainly a multitude of them. She estimated that within in any ten-square-foot area, there were at least three. She shivered as she considered what might be lurking in those holes and in the winding tunnels whose existence the Mandalorian's words had implied.

And then she had a worse thought.

"Are we going inside the holes?"

She looked at the buildings that were slowly growing closer to them, which seemed much more appealing even in their dilapidation than they had when she had first laid eyes on them.

"Yes."

Lyrian swallowed, and she could not find any more relevant words as they continued into the Crater. The Child in her arms would wiggle and squeeze his little claws tighter on her arm occasionally, no doubt trying to discern why he could not hear his own warbles, so Lyrian focused on trying to hear even the barest hint of one of his soothing coos as they continued.

She didn't hear a single one, even after the lip of the Crater had stretched high enough that she could never hope to see the _Razor Crest_ perched near it and even after her boots crunched down upon the ground at the bottom of the Crater.

She knelt and inspected the black earth as the wind howled incessantly above and all around her, everywhere at once and yet never in any particular place.

"This is glass!" Lyrian breathed when she had taken up a piece of the crystallized soil and held it delicately between her fingers. It shimmered, streaks of delicate black woven so tightly throughout the crystalline structure that the entire piece seemed to be a fragment of the night sky itself.

She inhaled sharply when the Mandalorian appeared suddenly beside her and swiped the piece of glass out of her grasp. She gazed into his blank helmet, hand curling the Child more snugly into the crook of her arm.

"Don't touch anything with your bare skin if you can help it," the Mandalorian said lowly, close enough that even without the higher level of distortion his helmet had applied earlier, his voice was clear enough to understand clearly.

"The entire planet is poisoned."

Lyrian pulled away from the Mandalorian, not able to resist the urge to look at her bare fingers, which were smudged ever so slightly with a black powder.

"How is it poisoned?" she asked when the Mandalorian had resumed walking, moving closer to the clustered buildings.

And, she wondered, how had she not heard of Toong'L before? She had not lived on Thule for very long—or very regularly—but surely she would have heard of a planet that was poisoned even to its very core.

"Two comets struck this planet's surface, many years ago. This crater was the result of one impact. The comets are still stuck deep under Toong'L's skin, and whatever poison was on their surface still spreads there."

There was a pause as Lyrian processed this, and then he spoke again.

"That's the rumor, anyway."

They walked on in silence after that until the Mandalorian reached the first building. He appeared to scan its surface, which was incongruous and which Lyrian couldn't pinpoint the exact composition of. He turned to his companions.

"You should find a map inside. It will tell you which holes are shops and which are to be avoided—the shops should all have some kind of holographic marker outside of them. You know what to do."

Cara stepped forward and answered loudly to be heard over the wind, which still roared unceasingly around them.

"Right. Get in, get what we need, get out as quickly as possible. Same goes for you, Mando."

The Mandalorian nodded.

"If I'm not back here in approximately half an hour, return to the ship and move into orbit. I'll contact you as soon as possible…"

Here the Mandalorian paused, and Lyrian as well as Cara could sense the unspoken corollary to his words: _if I'm still alive._

Lyrian tugged her hood down over her head even though she knew by now that the wind would rip it off in a few seconds anyway.

"What are you going to do?" Lyrian asked, the words tumbling out one after another. She tried to make them sound measured even though she hadn't really wanted to speak in the first place and didn't know why it mattered that she knew what the Mandalorian's errand was. Improvisation was proving to be the best tactic when it came to confronting her confusion around the Mandalorian, it seemed, so she decided to embrace it. For all her efforts, it was becoming apparent that she couldn't control anything but that in the first place.

"I'm going to locate others from my Tribe," he said.

Lyrian considered his reply and stored it away. It was information that, once again, might prove useful in the future.

The Mandalorian reached out a gloved hand to the Child in Lyrian's arms, and the little one stretched to grasp it eagerly. He was probably glad, Lyrian thought, to have something familiar in such an unfamiliar and frightening landscape. She felt him coo in her arms.

"Lyrian, I want you to watch over the kid," the Mandalorian said quietly, and his words were made choppy enough by the wind that Lyrian almost asked him to repeat his request. She thought better of it—knowing she had heard him correctly—when Cara shifted uneasily behind her. Obviously, the woman hadn't expected this either.

Lyrian could think of several reasons the Mandalorian might choose to entrust the Child to her care—and she wasn't sure what the implications of any of them were, really. She only knew that even if his decision was intended to discourage any daring escapes he might have sensed her concocting, she felt a jarring sense of relief at the idea that she wouldn't have to surrender the warm bundle of innocence that was in her arms to anyone else until they left the planet. She chose to dwell on that sensation, and responded to her surprise with what seemed to her to be all the tact she had been lacking for the past few days:

"I won't let anything happen to him."

She almost expected the Mandalorian to say something in response—for his posture tightened and he leaned forward as if to combat the wind's word-thieving tendencies—but he seemed to think better of it, and with a final terse nod, he moved toward a dark knot of holes in the direction from which they had come.

Lyrian and Cara watched him go and finally disappear into one of the mouth-like entrances—which swallowed him in its inky darkness without hesitation—and then Cara strode past her.

"Come on," she said. "The sooner we get off this hunk of rock, the better—for everybody."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey again! I hope this new chapter finds you well...and ready for the holiday season to kick itself into high gear! :)
> 
> This chapter and the next weren't actually supposed to be separated, but I have problems when it comes to dialogue/description balance (this isn't really news to you all, though, right? XD), so I got a little carried away. SO. MERRY CHRISTMAS. Two brand-new chapters with a nice dose of strange landscapes and lots of wind because wind can be ScArY. Also: important plot setup. o_O
> 
> I also wanted to take some space to send a massive, well-deserved THANK YOU to every single person who has taken the time to read, favorite, review, and follow this fic. Your support is incredibly appreciated - and to all those Guests out there who took the time to make me grin with their encouraging comments...you are AmAzInG! It's kind of sad that I have no way to respond to your comment and let you know just how appreciated your support is, so hopefully you'll read this and know anyway. ;)
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone! I love y'all.
> 
> I have spoken. ;)
> 
> ~Roanoke
> 
> "In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it."
> 
> John 1:4-5


	12. The Spark (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toong'L is special, and some Big Boom things happen. Also, Lyrian and Grogu are best buds, but neither one really knows it yet. ;D

It smelled of excrement in the first building they entered.

Even then, however, and even with the feverish glow that permeated the sagging building's interior, being out of the wind—whose sharp fingers never once ceased their irritating plucking of clothing, skin, and hair alike—was a welcome relief. Lyrian stepped lightly across the dirt floor, which was noticeably clear of any of the black crystals from outside, and watched as Cara marched to the squat, rectangular desk at the far end of the establishment. It was the only kind of structure in the building, except for the light fixture screwed into the ceiling and the two wide windows on either side of the single room.

Cara rapped on the desk's surface, eliciting a plume of dust.

"Hey, you," Cara barked, peering at someone or something Lyrian couldn't see from the other side of the counter. An unintelligible garble erupted not a half second later, and Lyrian jumped, though she chided herself immediately for such a foolish reaction when the perpetrator emerged from his hiding place.

He was a pallid creature who almost seemed to have been stretched bodily by the legs, which were jointed much like an insect's. His eyes were small and high on his skull, bordered by drooping folds of skin that merged into a curious star-shaped head—which in turn culminated at the bottom in a wide cleft chin. Coupled with the general atmosphere of the place and the way the creature trembled so violently as he looked into Cara's eyes, the situation was almost comical.

Lyrian let out a giggle at almost the same time as the Child shrieked in excitement, which earned them both a beady glare from the creature. Lyrian knew she deserved it, but even then it didn't completely quell the giddy energy that rose up within her. She attributed it once more to her confusion and impending death sentence.

"We need a map," Cara said, shouldering the large gun she had chosen from the Mandalorian's cabinet. "We heard you could give us one?"

The creature, still trembling, nodded with his entire body and then moved choppily behind the counter, presumably to retrieve the requested map. It was at that exact moment that the first vision—arrayed in a sequence of disjointed three-dimensional images and sensations—exploded across the back of Lyrian's eyelids.

The first image was a snapshot of Lyrian and her three companions descending into the Crater. But Lyrian knew with the same kind of otherworldly knowledge that lent her her visions, that she was seeing herself from the perspective of an enemy—or several enemies, actually. Enemies who were hunting them. Enemies who wanted more than a mere bounty.

The second image was, again, from the perspective of their unknown enemies, but now they were gathered several hundred feet away from the building Lyrian, Cara, and the Child were currently standing in. Lyrian knew their enemies were armed, were waiting, were _prepared_.

The third image was from Lyrian's point of view. She was standing inside the building, staring at the doorway, poised, expecting something, and then—

A _boom_ that shook the ground beneath her feet and rattled every fiber of the building.

Fire, rushing in behind the blast, consuming or stripping everything in its path.

Pain in her head and in her chest and in her legs and her arms and _everywhere_.

And the Cara, Lyrian— _and the Child—_ were gone. Dead. Killed in the explosion.

The vision dissipated, and Lyrian looked down at the Child with a staccato beat pounding in her chest. The Child's eyes were closed and, his tiny claws were resting lightly against the bare skin of her hand. He was sensing what she had seen, she knew, and he was probing, assessing. Maybe he was even trying to help her, as he had when she saw the nightmare-vision.

Lyrian knew it didn't matter if he knew what she had seen, however. He was going to die. She was going to die. Her visions had _always_ come true—had always revealed a sliver of the future that had inevitably come to pass.

But even as the panicky desperation clawed its way into her throat, she knew she couldn't let these unseen enemies kill the Child. She understood, with a sudden clarity that reached far beyond her, that she would _never_ let that happen as long as there was even the smallest chance she could prevent it. At the very least, she would die trying to save him.

He was so much more than her. He had power she had never known existed. He had united two powerful warriors to fight on his behalf—for what, she still did not know—and reached into Lyrian's darkest nightmare to save her.

He was a _baby_.

He was still _innocent_.

He was everything that she was no longer.

And he was going to die because she had forced the Mandalorian's hand, practically encouraged him to return her to her parents.

So, Lyrian did something that railed against every instinct she had ever held in high regard. She did something that poured breath into her lungs once more and forced her to move in a situation she would have normally frozen in fear at the thought of. Because she didn't have time to hesitate, to plan, to _think_.

She shoved the Child toward Cara, who had noticed the way she had gone stock-still, rigid with the power coursing through her.

"Take him! They're coming for _him_ ," she breathed, not able to look anywhere but at the door she was about to rush out of.

Lyrian turned as soon as the Child passed into Cara's hands—his outstretched hand a plea she didn't quite understand—and rushed out of the door, sprinting, knowing that she would run directly into the enemies whose presence she had sensed in the vision.

And she did.

She collided with a cloaked figure not ten strides away from the building, a burly creature who had been crouched just to the side of a jutting boulder, aiming what appeared to be a type of fission cannon at the building Lyrian had just left. She hit him and bounced backward, but not without procuring a sharp gasp of surprise and breathlessness from the cloaked figure.

"That's one of them!" she heard dimly as she managed to clear the remnants of the impact from her head and turn to run away.

But the figure she had hit snatched her by the collar with his free hand and held her up at eye level. She made out two dark slits of eyes under the edge of the hood, and then she was ramming her foot into his face, falling to the ground, scrambling and then sprinting away—away from the building, away from the future she had made possible.

The second vision hit, then, ramming into her consciousness and sending her to her knees, breathless.

It was a vision of fire, but it was different than before. This time, she saw herself as if from the perspective of someone standing at a distance, watching helplessly, watching with fear swelling in his every breath. She was seeing herself through the eyes of the Child. She didn't know how, but she was. They were connected - she and the Child - and only now, at what could be the end of their lives, did she realize that their connection went much deeper than the understanding the Child had extended to her back in the Mandalorian's ship.

Now, she watched as three cloaked creatures—enemies, like the one she had run into—stumbled towards her, where she kneeled in the sea of black glass. They were reeling, teetering as if drunk or dizzy or confused.

One of the enemies raised his weapon, pointed it loosely at Lyrian's exposed back, stumbled again—

The Child whose eyes she was viewing the vision through stiffened, a spike of alarm piercing his chest, mingled with something else—

And then the vision fell away.

A concussive blast erupted all around Lyrian, transforming everything into a progression of pressure, pain, and heat as fire sprouted from the blast's site of impact. There was ringing in her ears and pain all over her body and black glass splintering all around her—

She knew she had fallen, but she couldn't hear anything but a high-pitched ring, the swift _tha-dump, tha-dump_ of her own blood rushing throughout her entire body. There was glass pressed into her cheek, her forehead, and her neck. She was lying down and something was burning, curling itself into plumes of acrid smoke, but she couldn't really see anything except for the colored sky swirling above her.

But she had altered the course of the future, had she not?

The building had not been destroyed by the enemies.

The enemies had fired at her. They had not landed a direct hit, but they had still fired at her. They had not fired at the building. They had not -

Lyrian slipped into a new kind of blackness, then, and for the first time since she had arrived on Toong'L, all was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *grins*
> 
> "For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light."
> 
> Ephesians 5:8


	13. The Spark (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which poor Mando fights and runs and falls and fights and...fights - all while learning that maybe Lyrian is actually kind of maybe probably his kid now, too??

They attacked Din from behind.

The cramped space he had been walking through opened up into a shallow—but still more spacious and artificially-lit—chamber not some forty winding feet from the entrance. He had just spotted the end of the tunnel, where he hoped the databases he was looking for resided. With the wind outside screaming across the opening of this hole, masking all sounds but his own trapped breaths, the path had seemed a lot longer than it actually was, and he was relieved that its end was finally in sight.

He had felt a thread of familiar unease in his gut begin to unravel as soon as he had stooped down to enter the hole, leaving Cara, Lyrian, and the Child outside. The way his headlamp had done relatively little to sift through the thick, earthy darkness that stretched all around him hadn't done much to lessen that feeling, either. He also wasn't sure how much of the unease was due to his cramped, vulnerable position and how much was a result of his previous misgivings about stopping on Toong'L in the first place—and the fact that this entire contrived errand was really just a delaying of the bigger, more unpleasant mission he had gotten himself and the kid caught up with.

But he really _did_ have to get a lead, find some other Mandalorians to confront for guidance and assistance in his quest—if only because it would _seem_ to take him one step closer to finding out where he was supposed to take the Child. Or what he was actually supposed to do with Lyrian.

Those thoughts alone were enough to force himself to ignore the unease and push on, despite years of experience that said his instincts were trustworthy—when it came to combat matters, that was.

Regardless, Din hated being attacked from behind even on a good day, when he _wasn't_ crammed too tightly into a tunnel whose ceiling rose only to his neck.

To make matters worse, he knew as soon as the first blows landed that he was being attacked by at least _two_ people.

His first assailant kicked things off with a white-hot flash of pain across the back of Din's calves. It was a calculated strike, using a blade that bit easily through the material of his flightsuit and directly into the skin underneath. A second individual behind Din simultaneously landed a bone-jarring blow to the back of his knees. The pain from the lacerations and the fact that his balance was already compromised due to his stooped posture ensured Din was down on his knees before he could help it.

Din grunted at the pain and the impact, heartbeat skyrocketing and adrenaline flooding his bloodstream. He jerked his arm up to reach for his Amban rifle, but before his hand got past his shoulder, a third attacker, appearing out of thin air, hit him hard from the front and locked both hands around the back of his neck.

Din instinctively reacted to the clinch-hold by shooting one hand up to shove viciously against the inside of one of his attacker's elbows. He reached forward with his other hand at the same time to grasp the back of his assailant's neck, if only to counteract the clinch.

He knew instinctively that he was in a bad spot right now, especially so early in the fight—the head-lock variation his enemy was using would effectively allow him to control Din's movements. Or, alternatively, it could allow him to rip Din's helmet off, breaking his Creed and rendering his head exposed.

Din only got a few seconds to struggle against the hold—seconds in which he tried unsuccessfully to ram his larger opponent against the walls of the tunnel—before the blows began on all sides. The being in front of him began bringing his knees up against Din's chest repeatedly as Din struggled to break the clinch-hold without taking his helmet with it, pounding his chestplate with enough force to shatter unprotected ribs. Behind him, Din's other two attackers were landing punches where and when they could, trying to avoid injuring their comrade over Din's back.

And that was what gave him the leverage he needed, because there were only two ways anybody could move in this tunnel.

Din mustered his strength and wrenched himself backwards right as a knee to his stomach—just underneath the lip of his cuirass—was at the peak of its momentum. The rocking movement didn't have enough power to break the clinch-hold, but it knocked his assailant off-balance enough to allow Din to safely loosen the grip he had on the creature's elbow. He flicked his wrist as soon as he had the mobility to do so, and a stream of fire sprouted from the flamethrower on his vambrace. It splashed directly across his attacker's face and chest.

The Mandalorian was rewarded immediately with a shriek of pain and the involuntary relinquishment of the clinch-hold. Knowing that the two figures behind him were still capable of attacking, however, Din couldn't take the time to breathe after this small victory. He deactivated the flamethrower again with another flick of his wrist, and then, twisting as he did so, quickly flipped himself onto his back. He faced the other two assailants with a single clenched fist lifted and extended directly at their looming, dynamic shadows.

He didn't waste time in firing what he dimly thought might have been the last of his Whistling Birds, which shrieked out of their compartment and killed the two attackers instantly. The figures, cloaked and nearly indistinguishable in the dark, sprawled to the ground with a dull thump, and Din made the instinctive mistake to let out a sigh of relief—right before the figure he had burned leapt on top of him, twisting its body strangely so that it ended up straddling him, a curved dagger glittering in its raised hand, a rough, scaled face careening wildly in and out of the light from Din's headlamp as he struggled against the hand at his throat and the pressure on his abdomen.

"They will _die_ , Mandalorian," the creature hissed—right as it plunged its blade down with unnatural swiftness, aiming directly for the soft spot just below Din's helmet and just to the side of his pauldron.

Din wrenched one shoulder up right before the blade was supposed to land, though, and the blade bounced harmlessly off his Beskar with a short-lived spray of sparks. His attacker had been so confident in the blow that the sudden miss gave it a panicked pause, and by the time it realized that fact, Din had drawn his vibroblade from the sheath near one calf and thrust it into his enemy's chest.

It let out a hissing gurgle and then fell off him, dead.

Almost as soon as it hit the ground, a deep, reverberating _BOOM_ came from outside. The entire tunnel vibrated with the force of the sound, and a rush of urgency bloomed in Din's chest, hiking his heart and breathing rate to their maximum.

That was the sound of an explosion, Din thought.

The sound of destruction.

And it was coming from outside, where the two kids and Cara were.

Din managed to stagger to his feet, but the identical gashes he now sported on both calves were deep, and bright pain pulsed out of them with every slight contraction of his muscles. He could feel blood, too, hot and sticky in the folds of his flightsuit and the tops of his boots.

_The Child—_

_Lyrian—_

Din clenched his jaw, breathing deeply through the pain, and traveled back the way he had come mere minutes ago, moving as swiftly as the tight tunnel allowed, pushing roughly past the three bodies that now hindered his way out. He grabbed his rifle—which had been torn from his back sometime during the scuffle—as he went.

When he emerged from the hole, breaking out into the wind-ravaged atmosphere of Toong'l once more, the scene he saw was everything he had hoped it _wouldn't_ be.

A swath of the ground not far from the building he had directed Cara and his two charges to was partially in flames, burning with a strange black fire and emitting waves of smoke that were whipped into a spiraling frenzy as soon as they drifted high enough to meet the rushing wind. Din could make nothing out of the smoke, and with the way his vision was already going around in circles after his recent claustrophobic encounter, he didn't think he wanted to risk trying.

The building itself seemed to have just caught on fire itself, and he could now see Cara a dozen or so feet away from it, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a cloaked figure like the ones Din had just defeated.

Some distance away from her was another figure, hunched over what appeared to be a fission cannon—most likely the cause of the blast that had just been fired. Lyrian and the kid were nowhere to be seen.

Din widened his stance and rocked back on his heels, wincing at the pain in his calves. He trained his rifle on the person leaned over the cannon. If the weapon was reloaded and the attacker got another shot off—

The Mandalorian wasn't sure if his rifle—modified as it was—would have good enough range to make the shot he needed to make, but he wasn't going to take any chances. The kid was out there somewhere, as was Lyrian—and while Cara seemed close to defeating her own opponent at the moment, that could change in an instant.

Despite his trembling fingers and the way his vision began to blur at the edges from the amount of effort and focus he was using to aim the rifle, the first shot he fired hit the cannon-wielder below Din squarely in the chest. He disintegrated upon impact, and Din lowered the rifle to his side.

He leaned forward to begin the quick thirty-foot or so descent back to Cara (and hopefully the two hiding children), but gravity and fate seemed to have different plans in mind because yet _another_ attacker plowed into him from behind, pinning both arms to his side as it did so and sending both of them careening down the stone steps that climbed the edges of the Crater.

Din hit the steps shoulder-first, sending a jarring flash of pain through his entire left side, and then he was rolling down the edge of the crater, black glass spraying up wherever the Mandalorian and his flailing enemy dashed the ground. For a few moments, everything was a wild blur of colors and varying degrees of pain as the two of them tumbled down the entire length of the stairs—head, legs, arms, _everything_ banging against the steps and glass and unforgiving stone.

When Din and his assailant finally reached the bottom of the steps, the Mandalorian landing with a breath-obliterating _crunch_ on his back, a surge of darkness overtook his vision briefly, threatening to suck him into unconsciousness.

It was only the pain, radiating from every possible part of his body, that kept him from succumbing—that and the dim recollection of the _**kid**_ **.** He had to find the _kid_ , and he had to find _**Lyrian**_.

Disoriented and likely only alive because of his Beskar armor, Din rolled into something akin to a crouch, one hand raised seemingly of its own accord, holding the vibroblade he hadn't even known he'd drawn as he rose. He wouldn't be able to fight very well with one hand—as one shoulder was definitely dislocated and hanging limply and painfully at his side—but he would _sure kriffing try_.

But the attacker who had—like an idiot—attacked Din from above on a _hill_ , of all places, was crumpled not far from where Din had landed. It seemed that the cloaked Trandoshan hadn't fared nearly as well as Din without any armor to protect him, and the Mandalorian could tell without looking very long that he was dead, or at least very close to it if that head-gash was any indication.

_So why—_

"Mando!"

Din stood up too quickly and stumbled, reaching across himself to grab and somewhat stabilize the arm whose shoulder had been dislocated. He turned to Cara's voice and struggled to focus his eyes on her form—only to realize that she was less than ten feet away from him already, apparently having dispatched her own opponent and rushed to his aid when he fell.

_Which is why I can hear her through the wind, of course._

Cara pointed at the cyclone of dark smoke, the remnants of the blast that had occurred while he was in the tunnel, seemingly the result of a random or otherwise hindered shot from the fission cannon.

"Lyrian is over there!"

Din's breath hitched.

_Lyrian was in that? How was she—_

_Where is—_

Din struggled to reroute his splintered thoughts and the last of his fleeting attention toward sprinting to the place where Cara had pointed—the place she was now running toward as well. The smoke was so thick at first that Din couldn't discern any shapes or figures, but now, as he got closer—

He saw Lyrian, lying on the ground as if she had been flung by some giant hand.

_But where is the Child?_

And he saw two more attackers, one dragging Lyrian's limp form unsteadily through the sea of fused glass and ash and the other one seeming to reel drunkenly through the smoke, coughing and cursing in Basic in between ragged breaths.

His previous pain fading into the background, washed away temporarily by the adrenaline once more, Din kept running, surpassing Cara and lifting his arm toward the figure who was dragging Lyrian by the hood of her cloak.

The grappling line that zipped out of his vambrace hooked around the fleeing coward's arm, and Din wrenched it savagely to one side upon contact. The movement was so violent that it wrenched Din's dislocated shoulder, too, and he let out a sharp cry of pain even as his target stumbled and let go of Lyrian.

Panting heavily through the haze of smoke and his own undulating vision, Din clumsily pulled the blaster at his hip from its holster, aimed, and shot the fallen bounty hunter—for that's what he assumed the figure was.

When he was certain his marksmanship had been true, Din lurched himself to his feet and took a few running steps towards Lyrian, panic clawing up from his belly, his gaze frantically searching for any external wounds.

She hadn't been hit or she would have been burned beyond recognition, but she was so limp, so quiet, so _still_ —

_And the Child…where is he?_

For the third time in less than an hour, Din's tunnel vision proved to be his downfall, and someone rammed into his side, accompanied by a sharp, fiery burst of pain from low in his side, under his arm and below his ribcage, where the cuirass didn't quite cover.

It was the other hunter, the one who had been staggering through the smoke before Din had taken his companion down. The hunter he had somehow managed to forget in the few seconds it took for him to spot and be distracted by Lyrian's predicament.

Din managed to land a weak blow to the figure's side as it withdrew a blade from Din's side, but he only had one arm and he could barely breathe and he could feel the blood, the pounding of his heart, the bright sky getting brighter and then retreating, falling—

There was the sound of a blaster discharging, and suddenly Din's attacker had fallen away from him, crashing into the black glass without another sound.

Din fell to his knees at the same time, breaths ragged, helmet lolling against his collar, struggling against the pain to stay awake, stay alert, to _get to Lyrian and find the Child_ —

"Mando!"

It was Cara, at his side, an arm wrapped around his torso to keep him from falling face-first into the glass. Din turned his head, the feeling like wet cotton stuffed in his ears combined with the ever-present roar of the wind making it impossible to focus for very long.

"The…Child. Cara, where—"

"He's safe, Mando. Behind the crates. We need to get to Lyrian."

Din exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders releasing enough that he almost pitched forward again, and Cara had struggled to compensate for the sudden movement. She said something, concern leaking from her voice, but Din only had one thought at the moment.

 _**Lyrian** _ **.**

Din raised his head, and with momentous effort, the Mandalorian managed to get to his feet and take a stumbling step toward the Chiss girl. She looked pale—her skin was lighter than he had ever seen it before, and he couldn't tell whether or not she was breathing at all. There were cuts all over her face, and she hadn't moved at all from where her attacker had dropped her.

Cara supported him as he walked, and Din dimly registered the fact that she had pressed a heavy hand to the bleeding slit in his side, where the dagger had sunk into him. The adrenaline was fading now, bringing with it an entirely new intensity to his pain, making him aware of aches he hadn't even suspected were there before.

But Lyrian needed him.

He hadn't been here to protect her when they'd been attacked.

 _And the Child_ —

Cara said he was safe, but where was—

There.

The Child was waddling through the glass toward Lyrian, coming from who knew where—the direction of the building that was still burning, maybe. It was obvious the heated glass was hurting his bare feet, but still—he moved faster than Din had ever seen him move before. As Din pushed away from his friend and fell to his knees next to Lyrian, the baby reached her as well and looked up at the Mandalorian. He let out a long, mournful coo.

"I know," Din panted, mirroring the Child in reaching out with one hand. He took the little one's hand between his thumb and forefinger, gulping back ragged breaths and the rest of his adrenaline-fueled fear and maybe even his some of his own blood.

He let go of the Child's hand after a few breaths and, as gently as he could, gathered Lyrian into his lap, off of the too-hot ground. He cradled her head against the Beskar and cursed the way the wounds on his legs burned viciously as he leaned his weight onto them. And yet she did not stir, and he didn't know what to do.

_Is she breathing?_

_Is she even alive?_

He barely registered that Cara was beside him, and he struggled for a moment—fingers slipping, shoulder screaming in agony—to remove his glove so he could check for a pulse—

_Please please let there be a pulse—_

Before Cara reached forward and did it for him, her fingers pressing against the artery in Lyrian's limp wrist.

Din couldn't stop looking at Lyrian's face, couldn't stop thinking that she was a kid, just a _kid_. If he had let her die…if he hadn't protected her, then—

"She's alive…but she's fading, Mando," Cara said, and her voice was so flat that Din glanced over at her in surprise. Maybe even in disbelief.

It would be his fault if she died. They both knew it. And what would he be, then? What would he have done?

They also both knew— _somehow_ —that Lyrian didn't deserve to die like this. To die at all.

"We need to get her back to the ship," Din said, his voice thin even as it bounced around inside the confines of his helmet.

But Cara just looked at him with eyes that seemed almost as glassy as the shards beneath their knees—and just as dark—and his heart sank to his stomach. She looked down at the baby, who was still staring at Din, looking at him with something urgent in his eyes, something like an expectation.

"I think he wants permission," Cara said suddenly, and the flatness in her tone was gone.

Din looked down at Lyrian, heart hammering, black anger bubbling up behind his sternum as he saw even more cuts, saw the trickle of blood ( _red, like mine_ ) coming from her nose, from her ears.

_Just a kid._

"He wants to heal her, Mando. He _can_ heal her." Cara was getting excited by the idea, tensing, leaning forward, hoping like Din was.

Din looked again at the baby, still fighting the fluttering unconsciousness that threatened to pull his attention away from what mattered right now.

 _Of course_.

"Do it," Din panted to the Child. He leaned forward, to punctuate his words, to make sure the baby knew what he was giving permission for. "You can do it."

"Mando, you—" Cara began hesitantly, something steely in her voice as her hand pressed harder against the wound that still pulsed in his own side.

"He heals Lyrian," Din snapped, though even that burst of words made his vision buck again. He was weakening, he knew. He was losing a lot of blood now, too—faster because of his furious heart rate—but he had to make sure Lyrian was alright. He had to make sure that she was saved and that his mistakes hadn't cost her innocent life ( _another innocent life_ ).

"It's alright," Din whispered as the Child tentatively reached forward with one small hand and placed it on Lyrian's forehead, his big eyes never once leaving Din's helmet. Even with Din's permission, the baby seemed hesitant. How many times in the past month had the Child wanted to heal one of Din's minor wounds and Din hadn't allowed him to? Did the Child know that Din was hurt, too?

_How much energy will this take from the kid?_

But Din nodded through his doubts and racing thoughts, hoping the Child could sense the movement and know what it meant. He poured all his waning concentration into staying upright, into staying conscious _at least_ long enough to see the cuts fade, to see the color return to Lyrian's cheeks.

Because there was something about her—

Something like the kid—

Something he had to protect if only because he was the only one willing to—

The Child at Lyrian's side closed his eyes then, eyebrows furrowing. Din and Cara watched, neither one breathing, both of them silent as they kneeled under the swirling sky of colors.

Din dared to close his own eyes in the second before the Child began to heal Lyrian, and in that moment he made a promise. It wasn't a promise he could put into words so much as a promise he could feel—something that unconsciously shifted his priorities, his energies, rearranging his life yet again.

But one thing had to happen before he could make good on that promise.

He opened his eyes again and looked at the Child, and the infant must have known Din looked even with his own eyes closed because his ears perked up. Din couldn't hear the sound his tiny charge made—his little mouth opening and closing again like it did when he cooed—but he could have sworn it was a sound of reassurance.

Din carefully took one of Lyrian's still hands in his own, wanting to be able to feel when she became responsive again just in case he wasn't conscious enough to _see_ it happen.

_Save her, little one._

He gritted his teeth against a wave of pain.

_Because I can't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It is a new chapter. What else is it? I'm not sure, but...
> 
> Fight Scenes = HARD TO WRITE (but this is a Mando fic, so I guess it's kind of a big deal?)
> 
> Clinch-Holds = REAL (I did not make them up...)
> 
> My Level of Gratitude Towards Everyone Who Has Stuck With This Story and Enjoyed It So Far Despite Chapters Containing This Kind of Questionable Content: SO HIGH.
> 
> Seriously, everyone. Thank you for reading, thank you for your support, thank you for your likes/follows, and tHaNk YoU for just being here for the craziness of this story. You are amazing, and once you leave this page, you BETTER have a good day. Because you need and deserve one. *hug* :)
> 
> ~Roanoke
> 
> "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places."
> 
> -Ephesians 6:12


	14. The Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyrian tries - really tries - to convince her smol self that she's not a kid, but she fails. Also, angst and some whump and CARA IS CONFUSED SOME MORE.

This time, Lyrian's vision was not defined by violence and destruction.

It was warm at first, and even as she became slowly aware that her head felt as if it were being crushed between two jagged rocks, the pain and the pressure there was receding, being swallowed up by an almost itchy, warm tugging at the edges of her brain. She did not open her eyes, content to wallow in the strange buzz, which seemed not only to surround her entire body, but to originate from _within_ it.

She could not hear anything, which was odd, she thought. But the sensations that inevitably accompanied her most vivid visions of the future were pleasant this time—comfortable, even—and she wasn't going to ruin it by trying to break the vision.

Except…

There _was_ no vision—only the cool darkness of the backs of her own eyelids and her five senses, slowly leaking information back into her brain.

With some effort, Lyrian cracked her eyes open. Her first glimpse of the prism of colors convulsing above her head—and then the silver helmet bent over her face—brought what had transpired over the last few minutes rushing back into her consciousness…along with her hearing and the immediate cessation of the warm feeling she had just been basking in.

Confusion and anxiety over what had taken place spiked inside of Lyrian, and though she tried to sit up instantly, to struggle off the hard, uneven surface pressing into her back, she felt a gentle hand on her chest pushing her back into the unsteady cradle of someone's arm.

"Stay down for a second, Lyrian," a voice said, and Lyrian squinted against the too-bright environment around her, at Cara, whom she now saw was the source of the voice and the pressure at her sternum.

Who was holding her, then, and why?

_What happened?_

_Is the Child safe?_

Lyrian's gaze flickered up and to her left, and even though she had known since she first saw the helmet, she was somehow still surprised to see that it was the Mandalorian holding her. His helmet was tilted down at her, and though she could see no feature of his face, the tension in his arm and one of his hands—which she now realized was clasped too tightly over her own—was enough to inform her that he was worried.

That she had been unconscious, and her "vision" earlier was nothing more than her coming back to the world of the living—

That maybe the Mandalorian hadn't been sure she was going to wake up at all—

That maybe that had even concerned him to the point of cradling her like he would the Child—

"Can you stand?"

Lyrian was surprised again when the Mandalorian spoke. His voice was husky and came in between pants of breath that did not escape her notice, but the girl shivered and nodded weakly anyway. She was still stunned and felt oddly weightless in a way that made standing up seem less than appealing at the moment, but it appeared that perhaps her state of suffering was not entirely an isolated occurrence.

The Mandalorian released her hand, leaving it feeling cold and empty, and then pushed gently on her back with the arm she was reclined against, encouraging her to rock forward into a sitting position.

The Chiss girl obliged, breathing heavily through a nose that burned with the remnants of smoke around her. When she miraculously made it to her feet and stumbled with the force of the wind and a wave of vertigo, Cara was at her side, steadying her. Lyrian closed her eyes long enough for her rippling vision to calm again, and then she opened them again.

She looked down at where she had been laying, a ruffled canvas of black glass fragments and puffs of hesitant smoke, and shuddered. A jolt went through her not half a second later, when her eyes landed on the Child, lying still in the glass mere inches away from where she had fallen after the blast.

"No!"

She started lunging forward to grab him, something horrible raging in her chest at the thought that maybe he had died after all, that she had failed to save him ( _but how?_ ), but the Mandalorian beat her to it, jerking toward the Child with an urgency that made it seem as if he had just noticed the Child's plight for the first time as well.

Despite his sudden movement, the Mandalorian gingerly picked the Child up, grunting as he did so and using one arm with notably less mobility than the other. Cara pulled Lyrian back and held onto her arm, gently enough that it didn't hurt but hard enough that Lyrian knew she was supposed to be still, to avoid jostling her own fragile balance any more than she already had.

"He's not hurt," the Mandalorian said, voice strained as he tucked the Child, whose tiny mouth opened and closed again and whose ear twitched when it met the cold Beskar of his protector. "He healed you. He's…he's tired."

Lyrian looked down at him again, shivering, fear still running wide-open in her blood.

But it made sense. Of course it did. That was what the warmth had been—that's why she had been pulled out of unconsciousness. She _had_ saved him, and apparently he had done the same on her behalf.

How close had she really been to dying for him?

"We need to go, Mando. There might be more of them," Cara said loudly over the wind.

Lyrian sighed softly at how the woman's voice shattered the moment, finally tearing her eyes and thoughts away from the sleeping Child and all the confusion he had come to represent. She looked at the Mandalorian, and it seemed to her that she was truly looking at him for the first time.

He was still on his knees, having barely moved since he had helped Lyrian up, and even in the dark, she could see blood on his armor, splashed across the edge of his cuirass. He was tilted to one side, too, and breathing unevenly. His helmet did not move in reaction to Cara's words, and now the heaviness dropped again inside Lyrian's belly.

He was injured—severely injured, perhaps. Had he been wounded in defense of her or for some other reason, perhaps a threat he had encountered in the tunnels? How had he known to pursue her after the blast if he was inside the tunnels? And had _all_ of the attackers she had seen in her vision come after him and Cara while she was unconscious?

"I'll help you," Lyrian said suddenly, pulling out of Cara's grip and reaching down without hesitation to grasp the Mandalorian's uninjured arm, on the side where the Child was not. She was not entirely certain as to how much assistance she could provide given her small stature and her own unsteadiness at the moment, but the warrior had once again saved her life in one way or another, and he was wounded. She needed to repay her debt to him.

The Mandalorian _did_ react to her upward grip, weak as it was, and after a moment, he shook his head at Lyrian. He twisted around and, with a sharp inhalation of breath she could hear despite the interfering wind, extended the sleeping Child in her arms in her direction.

"Cara can help me stand. You…take the Child."

Lyrian stared at the T-visor of his helmet.

Her eyes fell unbidden to the blood on the Mandalorian's side, the way he was swaying now as the wind attacked and then retreated in taunting gusts.

And then she took the Child, though she wasn't sure she should be the one entrusted with his safety after what happened earlier. Those attackers—or at least some of them—had been after her. But maybe they had been after the Child, too…

As soon as Lyrian took the Child, hugging his tiny, trembling form close to her chest, Cara moved forward and took the Mandalorian's arm, hoisted rather than helped him to his feet, and then slung his good arm over her own shoulders. The Mandalorian grunted, and Lyrian watched Cara's instinctively move one of her hands—already soaked in blood, she saw—and press it against the wound in the Mandalorian's side. The pair rotated in the direction that led to the stone steps they had descended earlier.

"It almost seems like we've been in a situation like this before, doesn't it?" Cara grunted as she took an experimental step forward.

The Mandalorian might have responded, but Lyrian didn't hear it, and he was silent as he shuffled forward alongside his friend. The Chiss youngling swallowed, fighting tears she vainly tried to attribute to the stinging, ever-intensifying wind, and followed behind them no more than a few paces.

She couldn't look directly at the sleeping Child in her arms because to do so made her chest constrict painfully and took her eyes off the ground that _still_ seemed to rock in her dizziness.

She couldn't look straight ahead because then her eyes were automatically drawn to the blood spreading from two gashes in the Mandalorian's calves, bright in this place where everything was thick and dark with gray, flat tones.

And she couldn't look above her because the colors in the sky were mesmerizing enough to shift her attention from stay upright—and they, too, did nothing to abate her vertigo.

So, she tried to look everywhere and nowhere at once, dulling the growing bulk of her thoughts, which were pregnant with theories and questions and so many _emotions_ —so many things Lyrian didn't understand or know how to deal with. She tried to sort through them as best as she knew how, equipping the common sense and logic that had served her well up until her meeting with the Mandalorian and his companions.

She was concerned for the Child, she knew. Concerned that he might not wake up and it would be her fault—in more than one way.

She was afraid of the assailants who had attacked them, and she was afraid of being returned to her parents even now. They had no doubt sent the bounty hunters after her, so what would they do if she was returned alive? What kind of punishments had her actions merited in their minds?

But above all of that—clamoring above everything even though she could discern no ready reason as to _why_ —was an anxiety for the injured warrior who walked ahead of her.

Why would he allow the Child—the Child he obviously cared for and treated as his responsibility—to heal her, at the expense of much of his energy, if he planned on returning her to her parents? The bounty indicated that she could be returned dead or alive, and would it not be much more sensible from a practical standpoint for the Mandalorian to let her die when he had discovered her earlier?

More relevantly to the tangible present, would they be able to assist the Mandalorian to the top of the steps in his condition?

The Mandalorian seemed to be moving well, all things considered. Despite the difficulty he had experienced in _rising_ up from the ground, once he was walking, he seemed to be more mobile and in less pain. Even now she could see that he was relying less on Cara's support than he had been earlier.

But when they reached the base of the stairs and were staring up at the sloping rim of the Crater, both he and Cara hesitated. Lyrian came up on the side of his injured arm.

"Do you think you can make it?"

The Mandalorian let out a dry sigh.

"Do I have a choice?"

Lyrian watched as Cara smirked—though no part of the expression reached her eyes—and then the woman readjusted the Mandalorian's arm.

"Just tell me when you need a break, OK?"

The Mandalorian shook his head.

"Don't worry," he said, but his voice was quieter than before, and standing this close to him, Lyrian could see how he trembled—most likely from blood loss, if she was to hazard a medically-uninformed guess. She swallowed, an idea growing in mind as she noted the way that the fist of the Mandalorian's injured arm had curled tightly into itself against the pain.

She thought about how she had felt when she had first been brought back from unconsciousness by the Child's power. She considered how anxious the Mandalorian had seemed when she woke up.

And she thought that maybe she had something to lose after all, even if she was misjudging this entire situation she found herself in.

As Cara and the Mandalorian tackled the first step, Lyrian ignored the racing of her heart, shoved down the running analysis in her head that was helpfully informing her of how _sentimental_ and _disgraceful_ this action would be—

And then she took the Mandalorian's hand with one of her own, uncurling his fingers as best she could from their tense position, holding onto it in the same way he had held onto hers earlier. She made sure to make her grip on the Child more secure in the other arm at the same time, and she was relieved to find that neither his soft movements nor the wind seemed to take much interest in dislodging the sleeping infant.

She would hold his hand to support him, she thought. To remind him to keep going and to inform him that his earlier act of kindness had not gone unnoticed—to demonstrate that she intended to return the favor. Perhaps it would also assist her in retaining her balance if the dizziness should return, she reasoned finally.

And maybe, a smaller part of her argued, it was because it made the fear feel less like it was choking her, stalking her, ready at any time to pounce upon them once more. The ground seemed more solid—their goal more attainable—when the warmth of his hand slipped over hers.

The Mandalorian's step seemed to falter just barely at Lyrian's sudden contact, however—enough for Lyrian's breath freeze in her throat. She knew in that moment that she had made a mistake, and the urge to withdraw her hand crashed against her.

But the Mandalorian didn't say anything, and his steps became as regular as they had been before she took his hand. He continued moving up the steps, and, after a moment, she could have sworn that his fingers uncurled enough to give the impression he was squeezing her hand back. Or maybe the pain was returning, and he couldn't restrain himself from clenching his fists.

Either way, Lyrian resumed breathing again at the motion, willing strength into her fingers even as she felt some of her own blossom inside her. She tried not to think about the future or the vast unknown that stretched around her, and for the first time since she had made such mental activities a priority, she actually was able to clear her mind sufficiently enough to focus on the immediate goal of reaching the _Razor Crest_ without further mishaps.

United by this goal, the three companions struggled up the edges of the Crater, fighting against the wind—and the weight of what all might lay ahead—with every step.

* * *

The Mandalorian's shoulder joint slid back into its socket with a crackling _pop._

Lyrian winced at the sound and hesitantly cracked open her eyes to look over at the Mandalorian, who had braced himself against the wall of the _Razor Crest—_ and the necessary force of Cara's calculated shove—and was now leaned down over his knees, breathing out what sounded like a sigh of relief. Cara stood in front of him, looking decidedly less relieved than he sounded.

"Right. That's injury one. Now where do you keep the medpac on this ship?"

The Mandalorian looked up and nodded toward a battered cabinet adjacent to them.

"I'm not sure I have any Bacta left," he admitted, straightening up slowly and rolling his newly readjusted shoulder experimentally. Lyrian drew pulled her legs into a cross-legged position, grateful for the rest after the strenuous climb back up the Crater. She adjusted the snoozing Child, who had barely moved this entire time, and then looked back at the Mandalorian.

He had just looked over at her.

"How's the kid?"

Lyrian opened her mouth to answer, but Cara's timely banging of the door to the cabinet the Mandalorian had indicated mercifully halted anything the girl might have been inclined to say.

The woman aggressively slammed the dingy medpac she had found onto the nook Lyrian had been sleeping on the past few nights. She pried it open and peered skeptically inside. Lyrian couldn't see everything that it contained, but it didn't appear to be very promising.

"This is it?!" Cara exclaimed. She picked up a slim roll of bandages—the same one the Mandalorian had used earlier—and then what looked like a meager two Bacta patches. The Mandalorian didn't say anything, but he did ease himself onto the bench set into the wall.

"Haven't had much time to shop lately," the Mandalorian said drily. Cara gave him a look that was intimidating enough to make Lyrian want to grin, if only because the promises the expression contained made her nervous.

"Alright. Strip down. We're going for the stab-wound first."

Lyrian looked quickly at the floor. The Mandalorian had been _stabbed_? She had inferred that he had at least been slashed, maybe taken a few hard blows, but the idea that he might have actually been stabbed with all that armor on had never really seemed a viable possibility.

"No, wait. Bring the kid over here."

The Mandalorian paused when the girl looked up at him in surprise.

"Please," he said.

Lyrian blinked, glanced at Cara, who was gazing at the Mandalorian with a more intense version of the look she had donned earlier—where her eyebrows were drawn low over her eyes and her jaw was set in determination—and then stood up. She brought the Child over to the seated man, let him take the kid, and then stepped back a little bit.

The Mandalorian gently laid the Child on his back, stabilized him against his elbow, and then carefully lifted the hem of his brown robes, as if he were inspecting his tiny clawed feet. Lyrian cocked her head, and the Child didn't so much as sigh in response to the disturbance.

"He needs Bacta," the Mandalorian said after a moment. His helmet tipped up, toward Cara's face, and the woman raised her eyebrows.

"What?"

"His feet…they're burned. The glass was poisoned—and hot. He needs one of the patches."

The moment of silence that followed this statement was some of the most intense Lyrian had experienced with the Mandalorian and Cara yet, and she looked between the two adults with unashamedly wide eyes. Finally, Cara took a deep breath, blinked a few times, and then sat down beside the Mandalorian.

" _Mando_ ," she said, with an intentional sharpness that stung even Lyrian. "You need them more than he does right now. You're bleeding out, probably about ten seconds away from passing out, and you've been _stabbed_. Prioritize."

The Mandalorian, who had gone somewhat rigid at the beginning of the outburst, hesitated and then shook his head. Ironically, however, Lyrian could see the way he was trembling now, suffering from the blood loss and who knew what other injuries. Perhaps his wounds were affecting his mental capacities more dramatically than they had thought before, too.

"I can do with one."

"Compromise: we swipe his feet before we apply the Bacta to _you_ , and then Lyrian takes the Child back to the cockpit while we clean you up. That's probably all he'll need anyway."

The Mandalorian didn't respond at first, and Lyrian could tell he was looking down at the Child. Only then did she begin to feel as if she was intruding, as if she was witnessing a moment of weakness in the Mandalorian that few people ever received the right to witness. But she wasn't sure what that weakness was, exactly, or why it should matter if she saw it given all the vulnerability he had seen in _her_.

Cara once again broke the silence, and her voice was notably softer.

"You didn't let him down, Mando. Everyone is safe and alive. We made it out of that cursed hole, but now you've got to take care of yourself—or the next time something like this happens, some of us may not be so lucky."

Now, Lyrian really did feel out of place, and she stepped farther away from the pair, looking hopefully toward the cockpit's ladder. Cara's voice called her back, though.

"Lyrian, take the kid. I'm going to wipe his feet some, and then you go back up to the cockpit, alright?"

Cara's tone was final, and Lyrian nodded without meeting her eyes. She stepped toward the Mandalorian and reluctantly held her hands out to receive the Child—and, after a few seconds of breathing and watching and waiting, the Mandalorian gave him to her.

Cara quickly performed her self-assigned task—which actually did earn a little murmuring coo and a curling of the Child's three-pronged hands—and then Lyrian climbed slowly back up to the cockpit, leaving the wounded Mandalorian and his friend to a moment of necessary privacy.

* * *

Cara emerged from below Lyrian's feet with a sigh.

The woman wiped wet hands—freshly washed, it seemed—on her pants and then settled into the pilot's chair. When she had scanned all the controls and seemed satisfied that everything was it should be and that they were still firmly within Toong'L's orbit, she turned to Lyrian.

"You good?" she asked brusquely.

Lyrian, finding that eye contact with the woman was still hindered by an aggregate of vague factors, just peered down into the Child's peaceful slumbering face and nodded. She couldn't maintain her silence for long, however, because all the burning questions inside her refused to be quenched.

"Is he going to heal?"

Cara sighed again, and this time there was a fond smile playing along her lips. She looked at Lyrian, but the distance looming in her gaze told Lyrian that she wasn't entirely concerned with the Chiss youngling anymore.

"Yeah. I managed to convince him to try and sleep. The Bacta will work on the stab-wound and one of his legs, at least."

Lyrian nodded, and as had happened before on Toong'L's surface, an idea began taking nebulous shape in her mind. She fidgeted with the hem of the Child's robe and tried not to seem too readable as she measured her words out.

"Would you want me to stay down there for a little bit? Just to make sure he's alright…that he won't need any further ministrations while you pilot the ship?"

In reality, Lyrian mused within the private confines of her own thoughts, she was not overly keen on remaining up here with Cara, whose attitude toward Lyrian had oddly enough seemed closer to that of her parents than the Mandalorian's had in the brief time she had known him. And the Mandalorian might want to see the Child as soon as he woke up, if his earlier concern for the little one's wellbeing persisted even while his own wounds healed.

Even though it was the Child who had healed her—with a fierce and mysterious power Lyrian knew _she_ didn't quite possess—it had been the Mandalorian who had allowed him to do so. She was in his debt, and maybe repaying that debt would cement what she hoped she had correctly interpreted as a prominent hesitancy to return her to her parents' custody.

And maybe some unpredictable, inexplicably stubborn part of her just wanted to ensure that the Mandalorian really was going to be alright, to see it for herself rather than trust Cara's evaluation.

Regardless, the woman responded to her with all the confusion Lyrian could reasonably expect from such an odd request.

"You want to…go down there and stay with him?"

"Yes. If you do not think my presence would hinder his progress."

Cara blinked at the blue-skinned child in front of her—the one holding the small green baby, another charge of her friend, for better or for worse. Despite her better judgment, she smiled. Albeit, barely.

"No, I don't think he'll even know you're there. Just…tell me if he seems like he's not doing too well, OK?"

Lyrian nodded, being careful not to display an excessive amount of enthusiasm at the granting of her request, and then she was very gingerly making her way down the ladder, cradling her small charge with all the care her relief didn't crowd out.

Cara watched her go, and her smile was altogether gone by the time Lyrian had fully disappeared from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Coupla things to get through. One: I hope you liked the chapter and all that comes with it (this one seems a bit weird at times but eh). Thanks SO much anyway, everyone, for your kind words, your support, and everything else you've graciously bestowed upon me in regards to this fic. Much appreciated. :)
> 
> NOTE: I will be taking a fanfiction hiatus AT LEAST through February (maybe March, too) because Life Is Busy, Y'all. I might post the already-written next chapter for this story mid-February if I think of it, but no real new content for either this or "The Way Forward" will be forthcoming for a bit. Thanks for understanding - hopefully it won't be too long and I can work on wrapping these things up. xD
> 
> Thanks again, lovely people! God bless. :D
> 
> ~Roanoke
> 
> "The name of the Lord is a fortified tower; the righteous run to it and are safe. The wealth of the rich is their fortified city; they imagine it a wall too high to scale. Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor."  
> Proverbs 18:10 - 12

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! And thank you for coming! Just some quick notes: one, I have big plans and high hopes for this story, buutt it might take a bit to post each chapter. I have a Beta reader AND my other multi-chapter story to manage, so expect a chapter here every other week, tentatively. This is my second Mando fic overall, but I'm really excited for it and there's a lot to come--including some EmOtIoNs stuff. ;D
> 
> Secondly, I would LOVE to hear what you guys think about this and what you think could be improved and etc. etc. Please leave a review, please enjoy, and please have an EXCELLENT day because we need more of those in this life. ;D


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